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Full text of "European painting in the seventies : new work by sixteen artists : Los Angeles County Museum of Art, September 30-November 23, 1975, St. Louis Art Museum, March 16-May 9, 1976, Elvehjem Art Center, June 8-August 1, 1976"

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European 
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Anton 
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Jean 
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Pierre 1 Eduardo 

Alechinsky Arroyo 



iValerio 
Adami 



Los Angeles County Museum of Art 
September 30-November 23, 1975 

St. Louis Art Museum 
March 16-May 9, 1976 

Elvehjem Art Center 
JuneS-August 1, 1976 



European 
Painting 
in the 
Seventies 



New 
Work by 
Sixteen 
Artists 



Introduction by 
Maurice Tuchman 
with statements 
by the artists 



ISBN 0-87587-065-1 

Library of Congress 

Catalog Card Number 75-22938 

Published by the 

Los Angeles County Museum of Art 

5905 Wilshire Boulevard 

Los Angeles, California 90036 

Copyright© 1975 by 

Museum Associates of the 

Los Angeles County Museum of Art 

All rights reserved 

Printed in the U.S.A. 



Designed in Los Angeles 
by Evelyn Hirsch. 

All text set in 9 pt. Helvetica 

by Typographic Service Company, 

Los Angeles. 

The catalog is printed 
by Anderson Lithograph, 
Los Angeles. 



Acknowledgments 



First of all I wish to express my real gratitude to all 
sixteen artists participating in this exhibition; 
obviously, it is their art that makes the exhibition 
possible, but their individual cooperation was 
exceptionally generous and supportive. 

IVly longtime associate, Jane Livingston — 
formerly Curator of Modern Art at this IViuseum, 
presently Chief Curator at the Corcoran Gallery — 
is the first colleague I must thank for her interesting 
thoughts about this show. Pontus Hulten, Director 
of Visual Arts of the Centre National d'Art et de 
Culture Georges Pompidou, Paris, Germain Viatte, 
and Dominique Bozo, of the same institution, gave 
freely of their knowledge of the French situation. 
Michael Compton, Keeper of Exhibitions and 
Education, the Tate Gallery, London, advised me 
about painting in Great Britain; and David Sylvester 
in London assisted me in regard to Francis Bacon 
and generously granted permission for the use of 
quotations. In Holland, my learning of the art scene 
was facilitated by Edward de Wilde, Director, the 
Stedelijk Museum, Amsterdam. Jurgen Harten, 
Director, Kunsthalle Diisseldorf, provided information 
about German developments. Thomas M. Messer, 
Director, The Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum, was 
most helpful in reviewing the European painting 
situation; and Henry Geldzahler, Curator of Twentieth 
Century Art, the Metropolitan Museum, kindly offered 
his thoughts as well. 

The artists' representatives were in every instance 
completely responsive to the many requests we 
made of them. My gratitude is hereby expressed to 
the following: Eva Bendien, Galerie Espace, 
Amsterdam, for Anton Heyboer; Karl Flinker, Paris, 
for Jean Helion and Eduardo Arroyo; Arnold 
Glimcher of Pace Gallery, New York, and Ernst 
Beyeler, Beyeler Galerie, Basel, for Jean Dubuffet; 
James Kirkman and Anthony d'Offay for Lucian 
Freud; Kasmin in London for David Hockney, and 
Bob Miller of the Andre Emmerich Gallery, New York, 
Nicholas Wilder, Los Angeles, and Gemini, G.E.L., 
Los Angeles, for this artist also; John Lefebre, 
Lefebre Gallery, New York, for assistance with Pierre 
Alechinsky and Antonio Segui; Daniel Leiong of 
Galerie Maeght, Paris and Zurich, for Valerie Adami 
and for Joan Miro; Pierre Matisse, New York, also 
for Miro; Frank Lloyd, Pierre Levai, and Valerie 
Beston of Marlborough Galleries, New York and 
London, for Avigdor Arikha, Frank Auerbach, Francis 
Bacon, and R. B. Kitaj; and Leslie Waddington, 
Waddington Galleries, London, for Peter Blake. 
Each of these art dealers, as well as other dealers 
whose artists are not in this particular exhibition, 
rendered many courtesies and considerate 
actions, such as arranging studio visits, providing 
documentation, and facilitating transportation. 



In the course of developing the exhibition, certain 
discussions with friends and associates in the art 
world were particularly fruitful: let me thank 
Richard Diebenkorn, Baroness Minda de Gunzburg, 
Newton Harrison, Jasper Johns, Sven Lukin, Ronald 
Mallory, Peter Plagens, Barbara Rose, Daniele 
Thompson, and Tim Vreeland for their warm concern 
and critical thoughts. Three of the artists in the 
exhibition offered me stimulating ideas: Avigdor 
Arikha, R. B. Kitaj, and David Hockney. 

An unusually large number of individuals have 
helped make this exhibition possible. Virtually all of 
the Museum's 200 employees played some role 
in organizing it, as is customary, but I wish to thank 
the following for their highly visible contributions: 
Kenneth Donahue, Director, for supporting this 
project throughout its vicissitudes over a period of 
eighteen months: Betty Asher, Cecil Fergerson, and 
Barbara McQuaide of the Department of Modern 
Art: a summer intern, Katherine Klapper, who worked 
with real dedication: Grace Spencer, a department 
volunteer of longstanding commitment: Stella Dubow, 
another Museum volunteer, who made valuable 
contributions in translating from French material by 
Jean Helion, Joan Miro. and Pierre Alechinsky 
(additional assistance on the Alechinsky article was 
provided by Ellen La Spalluto of the U. S. Department 
of State and translations of Dutch material were 
contributed by Gaby Stuart) : and Patricia Nauert, 
Registrar, and Kristen McCormick. Assistant 
Registrar, for their efficient arrangement for scores 
of loans from diverse European and American 
locations. Edward Cornachio, Head. Photography 
Department, and his fine staff, and Eleanor Hartman. 
Museum Librarian, with Terry Ferl. Librarian, all 
displayed resourcefulness. In the Department 
of Exhibitions and Publications. I enjoyed the coop- 
eration of Jeanne D'Andrea. Coordinator of 
Exhibitions and Publications, Head Graphic Designer 
Evelyn Hirsch, Publications Associate Nancy 
Grubb, and Exhibitions Associate Carl Vance. The 
exhibition was installed by George Hernandez. 
Sylvester Wilcey, James Kenion, James W. Allen. 
Paul J. Martin, and their staffs, working under James 
Peoples, Head of Museum Operations. Philippa 
Calnan, Public Information Director, performed with 
her usual effectiveness as well as presenting me 
with her reasoned reactions to various matters. 

The exhibition is sponsored by the Museum's 
Modern and Contemporary Art Council, whose 
president, Dorothy Blankfort. has been completely 
supportive. Finally, I am grateful to the Board of 
Trustees, Exhibitions Committee Chairman Sidney F. 
Brody, Trustee Michael Blankfort, and Board 
President Richard E. Sherwood for their firm and 
constant backing of this exhibition and catalog. 
MT 



Introduction This is how the exhibition came about and why 

it looks the way it does. In March 1 974, 1 proposed to 
organize an exhibition of "painting in the seventies," 
declaring that painting was "flourishing and that 
its current stylistic pluralism differentiates the state 
of the art today from previous modern decades, 
which had at any one point a single overriding 
impulse (e.g., Cubism, Surrealism, Abstract 
Expressionism, sixties dispassionate hard-edge art)." 
With Jane Livingston, then Curator of Modern Art 
at the Museum, I drew up a list of fifty-one artists, 
forty of whom had not been shown in commercial 
galleries or museums in Southern California for at 
least five years. Artists on that list included Arakawa, 
Francis Bacon, Jo Baer, Balthus, Chuck Close, 
Gene Davis, Willem De Kooning, Jim Dine, Oyvind 
Fahlstrom, Lorser Feitelson, Helen Frankenthaler, 
Nancy Graves, Richard Hamilton, Al Held, David 
Hockney, Al Jensen, R. B. Kitaj, Robert Mangold, 
Joan Mitchell, Robert Motherwell, Georgia O'Keeffe, 
Jules Olitski, Nathan Oliveira, Philip Pearlstein, 
Joseph Raffael, Gerhard Richter, Paul Sarkesian, 
Cy Twombly, and William T. Wiley. The need for 
exhibiting such an array of talent was clear and 
compelling, and the Museum's Board of Trustees 
approved the exhibition plan as proposed, with 
recognition that a group exhibition is subject to 
change: somewhat like a living organism, it would be 
nurtured by supporting forces over a period of 
time. Such support came in different ways: when 
Richard Diebenkorn and I were in his studio 
discussing his new paintings, he said, with a 
distinct and unusual sense of satisfaction before 
one canvas of his, "Well, I don't know if it's art, but I 
know that that's painting." I took this as further 
evidence that a fresh look at the state of the medium 
of painting, of flat, wall-bound, framed objects, 
was in order. While in my view high energy in the 
seventies has been transmitted by the younger 
generation into other media, so much so that 
the entire pursuit of the painted image has become 
suspect — at least in the U.S. — still, art of over- 
powering authority was there to be looked at. Another 
example of the need people had for painting 
came from Sven Lukin, a pioneer of the shaped 
canvas early in the sixties, who remarked to me that 
he had "a loneliness for painting." 

Still, any show needs a cohesive agent, or else the 
work in it invariably declines in significance. 
This cohesion eluded me for many months, while 
I periodically visited studios and galleries in America 
and western Europe. I knew that the cohering force 
would not be in the annunciatory manner of a new 
direction, style, generation, or movement. For awhile 
I tried to make medium the unifying factor, i.e., 
oil pigment rather than acrylics, but I soon recognized 
the obvious: a good painter can make diverse 



materials work for him (and in this exhibition several 
artists combine various media upon the painting 
surface). Time and again I found myself attracted to 
artists whose careers — to use a strange word 
for a way to spend a life as a painter in modern times 
— were decidedly outside the imperatives of 
group thinking, or critical-support activity, or the 
art community. When I mentioned this developing 
sense to critic Peter Plagens. he responded in effect, 
"You want to do a show of loners: that's a nice 
idea." That wasn't exactly what I had in mind, but 
loners are certainly attractive, more in the seventies 
than ever. 

In the early summer of 1 975, after studying lists of 
artists visited and works studied. I realized that 
the majority of the figures most on my mind were 
European. Our library disclosed the startling fact that 
the last European survey exhibitions organized by 
U.S. institutions took place in the 1950s: an exhibition 
of paintings from the collection of The Solomon R. 
Guggenheim Museum, directed by James Johnson 
Sweeney in 1 954: The New Decade: 22 European 
Painters and Sculptors, at the Museum of Modern Art 
in 1955, directed by Andrew Carnduff Ritchie: 
and the Minneapolis Institute of Arts' European 
Art Today: 35 Painters and Sculptors. 1 959, organized 
by Sam Hunter {interestingly the latter two 
circulated to this Museum). The fact that almost 
two decades had elapsed without an American-made 
view of European art was immediately decisive, 
and from that moment on the question of the 
exhibition's structure became one of refinement. 

Keeping in mind that the original premise of the 
approved exhibition was to bring to Los Angeles 
important painting that had not previously been seen 
in the original, I compiled lists of European artists 
roughly falling into three generations. In my opinion, 
of the older generation — artists in their mid-sixties 
to eighties — six artists alone had continued to 
explore and deepen their art in the present decade. 
These artists, all of whom have been historic forces 
for decades, are Asger Jorn, Balthus, Francis Bacon, 
Jean Dubuffet. Jean Helion, and Joan Miro. It proved 
impossible to present Balthus. since this artist has 
finished but a single painting in the past eight years, 
and this masterpiece was not obtainable from the 
institution that acquired it. And the decision to 
feature new work by living artists caused the 
omission of Asger Jorn. who was making what were 
arguably the strongest paintings of his life before 
he died in 1973. I wish also to note that a foremost 
figure in postwar art, sculptor-painter Max Bill, has 
recently been presented at this Museum in a 
full-scale retrospective exhibition. 

Before discussing some of the unique qualities of 
the four senior artists in this exhibition, let me note 
that the twelve other artists presented here constitute 



roughly a second generation — most of them are in 
their forties — and that the youngest generation of 
European artists is not represented. The latter fact 
needs elucidation: in my visits and research 
I concluded that, as in America, most of the talented 
figures in their twenties and thirties are seemingly 
attracted to extra-painting media, especially 
video photography performance. Given the 
limitations of exhibition space, it was decided to 
focus on work that less resembles U.S. art. 

For three decades Francis Bacon has been painting, 
in John Coplans' evocative phrase, "as if the only 
hope for humanity is that he paints." In recent years, 
Bacon's art has become more inventive and 
possessed of bravado and conviction, while 
remaining relentless and hallucinatory. Entire 
human figures are contorted, as only heads had 
been previously. The newer painting depends not 
at all upon older art images, such as those from 
Velasquez and Van Gogh. The triptych has become 
far more frequent — - Bacon has completed about 
twenty in little over a decade. Three-panel paintings 
serve the artist with possibilities for an extra 
psychological and temporal dimension: a theme or 
form presented in the central panel is often amplified 
or varied in the side panels — an approach that 
refers back to the Renaissance. The evocation of 
older art is strengthened by the glass-fronted heavy 
gold frames, and by the reminiscence of "Grand 
Manner" painting. It is as if Bacon is competing with 
the old masters, while presenting imagery impossible 
to imagine before the advent of modern communi- 
cations systems, particularly the news photo and 
the motion picture image. John Russell's daring 
claims — that Bacon is the first artist since Degas 
to re-invent the relationship between the painter and 
the human figure or painted object (in presenting 
unexpected angles and physical positions) : that he 
"re-invented the human head" by portraying it in an 
entirely new way, making other images appear bland; 
and that he thereby "reclaimed" for painting its 
rights as an expressive medium — do not seem 
excessive in light of the new and continuing 
forcefulness of Bacon's art, 

Jean Dubuffet's Hourloupe series began thirteen 
years ago and ends now with works presented in this 
exhibition. Dubuffet recently defined Hourloupe as 
a "word whose invention was based upon its sound. 
In French, these sounds suggest some wonderland 
or grotesque object or creature, while at the same 
time they evoke something rumbling and threatening 
with tragic overtones. Both are implied . . . the cycle 
is . . . the figuration of a world other than our own 
or parallel to ours." As Thomas Messer records, the 
Hourloupe appears first, "as a subconscious ballpoint 
doodle, translates itself into painting, reliefs. 



sculpture, architectural environments" and 
choreographed theater — the Coucou Bazaar — 
and finally emerges in an extraordinary series of 
forty-seven paintings which round out the cycle, 
being large magnifications by other hands of the 
artist's cursive ballpoint doodles. The effect of 
seeing the complete set in Paris' Centre National 
d'Art Contemporain was remarkable — and puzzling; 
one did not know that the paintings were executed 
by remote control, so to speak, yet the character of 
the works, their airlessness. in particular, along with 
a completely disquieting sense of scale — all wrong 
and exactly right at the same time — was announced 
as if by state declaration. An exceptionally 
illuminating statement by the artist on these works 
appears in this catalog in the form of a letter to 
art dealer Ernst Beyeler. 

Jean Helion's life as a man and painter makes one 
of the fascinating stories of the twentieth century, 
all the more so because his new works are his highest 
achievement to date. This is not to say that they are 
likely to gain admirers any more rapidly than his 
proto-Pop figurative paintings of the forties, but I am 
convinced that the opulent, strange, frank yet 
allusive new paintings represent a remarkable 
deepening in the fifty-year career of this artist. Since 
his story is certain to be told more fully and properly 
in another context, let me quote just a passage from 
a 1973 notebook of Helion's to indicate from his 
vantage point some of the vicissitudes in his 
long painting life: 

In the course of years, I've had to contradict 
myself frequently in these notes: to attack 
someone and then praise another, or vice versa. 
All that must be considered in its entirety. 

Likewise in my social demeanor. 

If. however, it matters to whomever to 
understand my voyaging; my pictorial course 
Is clearly layered: 

from 1925 to 29: intense painting of instinctive 
reactions to nature or to an object. 

from 29 to 33: elaboration of a system of signs. 

from 34 to 39: effort to define myself and to 
define the world in an abstract manner. 

in 39 and from 43 to 46: effort to extol the world 
with my abstract structures. 

from 47 to 51 : search for visual and human 
archetypes. 

from 51 to 54: effort to explain everything by 
close contact with the object. Effort to include 
appearance in the essence. 



from 55 to 58: light. 

after 58: the free part: EVERYTHING AT ONCE. 

The reader is urged to savor Helion's commentary 
in this catalog for his views on the new paintings. 

Acute critics of Joan Miro's work as diverse as 
Clement Greenberg and Harold Rosenberg have, 
over a period of decades, commented on the special 
impact of Miro's work when he employs thick fabric 
or burlap. Greenberg in 1948 writes, ". . . among the 
few perfect things artists have done anywhere and 
at any time, I would include one or two of the 
paintings in black, red and yellow on burlap Miro 
did in 1939." Rope appears early in Miro's work, in 
the thirties, often as a token of violence and cruelty, 
but later hemp and thick woven fabrics became, 
literally, a challenging field for the artist, providing 
a chance to make colors and forms and drawn lines 
interact with the knots and twists and braids of the 
surface. There is a sense of excitement and risk in 
these works since the viewer feels that the work 
had to be made directly, without predetermined 
forms; one recalls Miro's words, "If you have a 
preconception, any notion of where you are going, 
you will never get anywhere." 

Miro's Sobreteixim series (the word is Catalan 
for "on hemp") was prompted by the artist's visit to 
a Barcelona art gallery in 1969, where he came upon 
Josep Royo's woven hangings and immediately told 
him: "Let's start together at once. We are going to 
break traditional molds." Thereafter Miro would 
regularly go to Royo's studio outside Barcelona from 
his own studio in Majorca and work with that 
extraordinary concentration of his, stimulated by 
the provocative surface — "wool and weaving give 
me a great sensual feeling." remarked the 
octogenarian — and responding with marvelous 
pictorial inventions, with immediate and 
non-habituated responses. A good example of this 
intense improvisatory manner appears in Sobreteixim 
XII where, in A. T. Baker's words, "Miro's eye lit 
upon an empty paint bucket: he rammed it into the 
composition then . . . added a fake spill of paint made 
of canvas. He proposed scorching certain areas to 
darken the hemp, and soon the studio flared with 
gouts of kerosene fire, quickly lit then doused." 

There are twelve artists of a "middle" generation 
presented here and, to my regret, there are others 
whose work I could not adequately observe, such as 
English painters Leon Kossoff and Michael Andrews, 
and Italian artist Gianfranco Baruchello. Other artists, 
including Richard Hamilton, had no work at all 
available for loan due to longstanding prior 
commitments or to the policy of owners of their few 
recent works. Certain abstract work which I value — 



let me cite that of Richard Smith, for one — depends 
on pictorial transgression into bas-relief or sculptural 
terrain for its strength and purpose: this work would 
look utterly anomalous in the present context and 
would serve neither artist nor the public fairly. 
This is not, of course, the last picture show. 

With all the limitations I have set, I believe the 
present show contains a degree of cohesion that 
may indeed benefit from these omissions. I refer to 
the need felt by each of the participating artists to 
evoke and interpret the human figure — and the 
places a human being has been — in a fresh 
manner. Although the time for ideological argument 
about abstract versus representational expression is 
happily long since gone, one cannot ignore the fact 
that the twelve artists now under consideration — 
along with the four older masters — have each taken 
full notice of the enticements of modernism and 
abstraction, and are currently striving, whether at 
age thirty-six or eighty-three, to find convincing 
communicatory devices for connoting the human 
presence within the aesthetic limits determined by 
the twentieth century. 

In every case the younger artists have primary 
regard for the handmade object, even if, in the work 
by Hucleux, the canvas surface seems — which it is 
not — to be covered by sprayed acrylic paint. Only 
brush, knife, and stick — extensions of the hand — 
are intermediary between artist and canvas. 
Dubuffet's use of pictorial enlargement by others 
appears in this regard to be a deliberate challenge, 
not at all to be demeaned. The artists commonly 
share a passion for other cultural forms, usually film, 
sometimes opera and ballet, always literature and 
history (as far as I can tell) but not dance or current 
music (in marked contrast to their American 
contemporaries). A commitment to the idea of culture 
In the older sense of improvement and refinement 
of mind and emotion, and to the possibility of 
transmitting such values from one generation to the 
next, is shared by these younger artists, insofar as 
I know (I haven't met Arroyo, Auerbach, or Hucleux, 
but I have read their published and private writings). 
None of them teaches art (nor does Bacon, Dubuffet. 
Helion.or Miro): they do not appear to be professional 
artists, although as artists their professionalism 
is indisputable, 

(Most of the artists wrote statements for this 
catalog, and one article has been translated from its 
previous publication: in my notes here I will not refer 
to information to be found in each artist's section, but 
the reader is encouraged to take those statements 
into account.) 

There is a strong English representation here. 
Including artists who have adopted England as their 
home: Peter Blake and David Hockney are British 
by birth: Frank Auerbach and Lucian Freud were 



born in Germany and raised in England: R. B. Kitaj is 
American-born and domiciled in England since 1958. 

Peter Blake attained renown in the sixties as a 
leading Pop artist, as did Hockney, and in both cases 
this label has worn off in the seventies. This has been 
all to the good. I think, for while Blake's production 
has been sparse in the past few years (I know of only 
two small finished works besides the five equally 
small paintings in this exhibition) the haunting 
quality of these rare works has become more 
pronounced and simultaneously more subtle. 
Personal to the point of seeming peculiar, they 
depend not at all upon the support of a group 
sensibility. They now depend much less than before 
on commercial art or other art sources, and are 
concomitantly more unselfconscious and direct. 
But they are mysterious, these creatures, in whom, 
to quote Robert Melville, the artist has found "human 
warmth where others find only cliche and 
exploitation." The paintings in the exhibition have 
often been reproduced by offset lithography, and 
to observers of the art scene they may seem familiar 
from color reproduction, but in the originals one 
senses that every stroke is a felt response to 
something scrutinized, the layers of wash lying on 
the paper like seismographic messages from within, 
nuanced beyond expectation. 

David Hockney has remarked that his paintings 
"stopped being literary about when I went to 
California in 1964." Also atthat time the stylistic 
influence of Bacon and Dubuffet lessened 
drastically. Hockney credits his contemporary, 
R. B. Kitaj. with being "the artist who influenced me 
most strongly as an artist and a person." This is an 
exceptional compliment coming from one artist to 
another of his own generation, but it is also a 
statement characteristic of Hockney's sensibility as 
a painter: just as Kitaj's work bears little actual 
pictorial connection to his own work, so Hockney's 
comment reflects his generous, if deceptive, 
candor. Hockney is much more droll and understated 
than his reputation for caricature and satire allows. 
In recent years his paintings have enlarged in size 
(and this scale works) and in clarity, precision, and 
specificity. Hockney recognizes the obvious and in 
so doing touches evermore upon mystery. This is 
now signaled by the greater stillness his paintings 
breathe, and also by the increasingly subtle wit. 
One recalls the seemingly obvious remarks the 
artist makes in conversation, for example: "The 
great advantage of California for working is that the 
day is longer in Los Angeles": and. speaking of his 
long-held desire to paint water and glass because 
they are not quite describable, "I like the idea 
of glass." 

As Hockney's painting has become more 
"naturalistic. " in terms of space as well as of subject 



matter, so paintings by his close friend R. B. Kitaj 
have contrarily become more literary, complex, and 
imaginative, yet more lyrically abstracted. Frederic 
Tuten offers the insights that Kitaj's life work 
constitutes pieces "of the same ongoing film," with 
new appreciations of "the indoor and exterior" being 
"more purely harmonized." A commanding influence 
upon British painting in the sixties, Kitaj found his 
own sources in the solitaries: Ryder, Morandi, 
Hopper. Dickinson, and Balthus. as well as in 
De Kooning, as he acknowledges. In fact Kitaj 
brilliantly ransacks the main styles of modern art 
for his own needs, including the "mechanical 
fantasies of Duchamp and early Ernst (surreal poetry 
and the Ernst collages), the delicacy of Bonnard, the 
rectangularity of De StijI and the coordinated scatter 
of Miro or the later Kandinsky" (John Willett in 
Art International). But above all. as he confided to 
me. it is Matisse who counts. "I just saw the greatest 
exhibition I have ever seen in my life," Kitaj said 
to me in July 1975. after leaving the Matisse drawings 
survey exhibition in Paris. In Kitaj's view, the last 
artist to successfully invent a new way of showing the 
human figure was Matisse, in his late work; and his 
own ambition is nothing less than to find another way 
to do that while remaining true to his generation's 
preoccupations and perceptions and to his own 
experiences. Kitaj's influence upon his generation 
and on his students had earlier resided primarily in 
pointing out certain little-used visual images — 
a family of images pertaining to politics and books 
and the evocations of reproduced photographs, a 
collagist sensibility filtered through the clean bold 
color of Matisse — but in recent years his art 
suggests the possibility of a newer art-language and, 
as such, his influence in the future may well be of 
another order. 

As a foreigner settling in England, Kitaj has been 
a teacher and is currently still visible in certain 
sections of the London cultural scene. Nothing could 
be further from that than the life style of Lucian Freud, 
who lives almost undetectable in several London 
apartments in different parts of the city, with few of 
the locations known except to a handful, and with 
no telephone at any of them. Freud grants almost no 
interviews, allows almost no one but longtime friends 
into his studios. These friends are often the models 
of his singular works of art. The investigations of 
his sitters are. in John Russell's words, "prolonged 
almost beyond human endurance." If he studies 
these small, immaculate images, the viewer becomes 
aware of this very process of the body gradually 
hardening. The portraits are painted as if "by a part 
phrenologist, part mystic masseur, from the sinuses 
outward," in Michael Feaver's words. In his paintings 
of the seventies. Freud has moved away from the 
fanatically tight surfaces for which he is somewhat 



known in America to a far more emotional and 
powerful expression (Freud's seven paintings in the 
exhibition are his first to be seen in the U.S.). The 
painting is now freer and looser, more liquid, and the 
compositions are stranger and odd-angled. In the 
recent portraits, "the flesh of a face ... is unfurled 
upon the canvas — almost to erupt on the surface of 
the picture" (Paul Overy). Freud tackles the problem 
of the full figure more frequently and, with intensity 
equal to that of the portraits, renders this larger form 
splayed out or spreadeagled or hunched over into 
a disturbing formal arrangement. The figures are 
"individuals, undressed, in private" (Feaver) and 
when there are two of them — another more recent 
development — it becomes clear that Freud's main 
concern is and has always been the nature of the 
relationships between people, and between the 
sitters and the artist. Annie and Alice, of 1 975, is the 
first double female portrait; it reminds one of a 1968 
Bacon triptych (reproduced John Russell, Francis 
Bacon, Greenwich, Connecticut, 1971, p. 100), but 
it looks like almost nothing else one has ever seen. 
Frank Auerbach's primary influence as a painter 
was David Romberg, a seminal figure in modern 
British art whose work is still insufficiently known in 
America. In the late sixties and seventies, as 
Auerbach's paintings have developed they have 
taken on a poignantly difficult aspect; they have 
become and remain famously hard to decipher; the 
image one knows to be there comes slowly out of 
the masses of pasted pigment. The brushstrokes 
collect into a sort of "compost" which in turn 
prompts other marks and configurations. The artist 
has commented, "The painting is a result of a 
multiplicity of transmutations partly as a result of 
external information, alluded in the drawings [fifty 
drawings, for example, preceded his painting the 
Tate Gallery's Pr/mroseH/7/, 1967-68], partly as the 
result of internal intelligences." Auerbach works on 
his paintings from all four sides "to ensure that the 
images and marks" are "correctly related to each 
other in every direction." Through all this laborious 
painting and scraping, creating and effacing, a 
rugged vitality comes through to the attentive viewer. 
One feels that the picture, for all its evident 
changeableness, is really resolved; one recalls 
Auerbach's statement, "what I'm trying to do is finish 
a picture; if I could do it at the first time, I would. 
My hope and desire is to find the most marvelous, 
electric, comprehensive and weighty image . . . there 
... as a fact. . . . The process is not of inquiry in the 
sense of some patient chewing away ... at what is 
called the problems of painting — it is a desire for a 
marvelous luxury, a marvelous existing image . . . 
and it just happens that because of limiting 
clumsiness, and perhaps ambition, it takes me 
enormously long to get these." (Quoted by John 



11 



Christopher Battye in Art and Artists, January 1971). 
Regarded as a scholar and an intellectual, Auerbach 
has made other illuminating comments on his 
singular work; the following remarks were also 
recorded by Battye: 

I think it is all imagination. It is finding an 
unfamiliar geometrical connection between a 
series of facts; for instance, if I were able to tie 
up now my fingernail with the floor and the bar 
between the legs of that in a rhythm that 
worked, that would be a feat of imagination 
which would seem to me to be infinitely more 
ingenious, exciting and extraordinary than if I 
put three beans, a small skyscraper, a spot of 
red and five tin tacks knocked into the surface 
of a canvas onto that table. Imagination 
operates by connecting the unfamiliar. I can 
see, for instance, that Magritte has a certain 
magic, that the disparity of objects — the 
moving of African sculpture into Europe and 
putting them together gives them a certain 
glamour, but the connections between the 
unknown and the unworked elements in a 
Velasquez head of Philip IV are infinitely more 
daring, mysterious, alive and reverberative than 
the elements in a Magritte picture, which are — 
in a sense — familiar ideographs of unfamiliar 
objects put together in a canvas. Imagination 
is finding new conjunctions in a set of facts 
which have never had those connections made 
within it before. Occasionally, it blossoms out; 
I mean I'm delighted (this is a very modest 
thing) if, as once I had to do, I find myself having 
to put an eight decker bus into a street scene, 
or somebody has three eyes — these things can 
occasionally occur and I'm very grateful for 
them . . . but they seem to be symptoms of an 
activity which hopes for something to be 
working at a much deeper level in making the 
disparate and self-contradictory real world a 
known world, because of the conjunction within 
it. That's why painting is so consoling. 

Aside from Jean Helion, Jean-Olivier Hucleux is the 
only native-born Frenchman in this selection of 
artists. He is little known, even in France. This is 
apparently largely his intention, since he lives rather 
reclusively in the countryside outside Paris and has 
never, to my knowledge, allowed anyone to watch 
him work. The extraordinary self-portrait photograph 
Hucleux has provided us, and the poetic and 
thoughtful statement the artist also made for this 
catalog are just about all I know of him, other than 
his paintings dating back to 1971. 1 find the paintings 
astonishing creations which gain in mystery and 



depth one after the other. They call to mind other 
"photo-realist" paintings only at first glance: after 
a while their true nature, mystical and elusive — 
deriving in part from their being hand-painted rather 
than sprayed — separates them utterly from the 
works of countless other realists. Only the American 
painter Chuck Close seems to be able to imbue a 
photographed image with this intensity, an intensity 
that borders on reverence for nature simultaneous 
with a fascination for the reproductive mechanics 
of the camera. 

Five artists in this exhibition have studios in 
Paris but are of diverse nationalities: Valerie Adami 
is Italian and lives near Milan as well as in Paris; 
Pierre Alechinsky is Belgian; Avigdor Arikhawas 
born in Romania and is an Israeli citizen who 
frequently visits and works in Israel; Eduardo Arroyo 
is Spanish; and Antonio Segui is Argentinian. 

Valerio Adami achieved renown in the sixties with 
images that related to the international Pop Art 
movement, albeit with a sense of implied nightmare 
and danger that set them apart from the deliberate 
blandness typical of Pop. In his work and in 
conversation the artist continually refers to film and 
to political and literary personages, especially poets. 
When he singled out T. S. Eliot's line, "The poet is 
constantly amalgamating disparate experience," 
he could have been pointing to the intention of a 
canvas of his own. Reminiscent of Hucleux's 
comment that it takes "a lifetime to do a work," is 
Adami's belief that if one "were to represent a trip 
from Milan to Paris in a rigorously analytical way, 
a lifetime would not be enough to finish the work": 
his paintings are pictures with connections (the title 
of his 1966 exhibition at GalerieSchwarz in Milan). 
The bright, flat planes of Matisse stand behind 
Adami's paintings, but in Adami forms are sliced, 
colors are higher pitched, a sense of flux rather than 
stasis is the goal: continually the theme of voyage is 
declared. Unlike Matisse is this artist's desire to 
imply a narrative, make a report, or recount a history. 
Hubert Damisch has pointed out that in the earlier 
work there is suggested "the threat of castration" by 
the "fetishization of objects"; whereas in work of the 
seventies the paintings present more ample forms 
and more distanced and curvilinear treatments. The 
constellation of implied meaning in Adami's work 
is best expressed, in my opinion, in an analogous 
verbal explication by Damisch, written in French, 
of Adami's painting S. Freud Traveling Toward 
London. One must know before going further that 
there are flies depicted in the painting, and that the 
word fly in French, "mouche," also means spot, 
speck, patch, bull's-eye — and slight intermittent 
pains. "Let the analyst beware of taking hold of this 
fly too quickly! For if the picture hits the mark . . . 
it does not do so for the purpose of suggesting the 



mean aspects of analysis or its least respectable 
motivations ... or of pointing to Freud's suspect 
passion for the closed field of the collection which 
. . . could be interpreted as a decisive metaphorfora 
very real pain. ... If this picture hits the marl<, it is 
because, as the word also means, it spofs, and at first 
all appears as spots before the eye, and through this 
very box, this box of flies, this box of spots, 
thumb-indexed as it seems to be, the head of the 
argument enters the field" (my italics). 

"If there is one word that interests me, it is the word 
simultaneity," noted Adami, and this concern has 
remained consistent in his work. He has been quoted 
by Henry Martin on his working method, "I attempt 
to register things coldly. My hand should be a kind of 
seismograph that gives body to the traces left by the 
course of the imagination. When I paint I am nothing 
but a map maker." 

First identified as a founder of the COBRA group of 
artists based in Copenhagen, Brussels, and 
Amsterdam, who propounded a biomorphic- 
mythological-expressionistic approach in the fifties, 
Pierre Alechinsky has developed — especially since 
he took up acrylics in 1965 (see his text in this 
catalog) — continually more personal imagery and 
confident painting. Confidence is to the point here, 
because the nature of Alechinsky's imagery, being 
calligraphically agitated, alternately labyrinthine and 
diagrammatic, mystical and pseudo-narrative, would 
seem to negate the possibility of a sure-handed 
approach, but the recent works display just such a 
merger. The color paintings are fluid now, as were the 
earlier black and white ink sketches; and time too 
seems subjected to Alechinsky's sense of form, as in 
Antecedents of the Subject, an almost medieval 
image in which the world seems depicted in a 
transmogrifying process. A fabulous description of 
Alechinsky's painting has been supplied by the writer 
Julio Cortazar. The passage reads like an Alechinsky 
painting: 

. . . the shoe started walking and went into a 
house: which is how we happened to discover 
our treasure — the walls were covered with 
prodigious cities, landscapes that offered 
endless privilege, plants and animals that never 
occur twice. In our most secret annals the 
account of this first discovery is set down: the 
explorer spent a whole night trying to locate 
the exit from a small painting in which the trails 
entangled and crossed like an interminable act 
of love, a recurrent melody that rolled and 
unrolled the smoke of a cigarette passing 
across the fingers of a hand to unfold into a 
long strand of hair which, full of trains, entered 



the station of an open mouth against a horizon 
of snails and orange peels. 

... ours is an atlas of scattered pages which at 
the same time describe and are our chosen 
world; and that we speak of here, vertiginous 
charts of the ports, great sea compasses of 
ink, of rendezvous with color at the juncture 
of lines, of terrifying and hilarious encounters, 
of infinite frolic. 

Over-accustomed to our sad life in two 
dimensions, if at the beginning we remained on 
the surface and were satisfied with the delight 
of losing ourselves, finding ourselves and 
meeting one another at the end of the forms 
and roads, we soon learned to dig deeper 
beneath the semblances, to get down under a 
green to discover a blue or an altar boy, a 
pepper cross or a county fair; the shadow areas, 
for example, the Chinese lakes which we skirted 
at the beginning, being filled with timorous 
doubts, became whole speleologies in which 
all our fear of falling gave way to the pleasure 
of passing from one penumbra to another, of 
entering the sumptuous war of the black against 
white, and those of us who delved to the deepest 
levels discovered the secret: it's only from 
below, from inside, that the surfaces can be 
unriddled. We understood that the hand that 
had traced these figures and those courses and 
tracks that match our own, was also a hand that 
rose from within to the tricky air of the paper; 
its real time was situated on the other side of 
the space outside which the light of the oils 
broke into prisms or filled engravings with sepia 
icicles. Going into our nocturnal citadels was 
no longer a group visit with a guide making 
comments and ruining everything; they were 
ours now, we lived among them, we made love 
in their rooms and drank moon-mead on 
terraces inhabited by a throng as hustling and 
fitful as ourselves, tiny figures and monsters 
and animals embroiled also in the occupation 
of the territory and who received us without 
jealousy as though we were painted ants, the 
drawing moving freely out from the ink. 
(Translated by Paul Blackburn.) 

Avigdor Arikha resumed painting in the fall of 1973 
after having virtually abandoned the medium for 
eight years. During that non-painting period he had 
turned from working abstractly to doing vibrant yet 
grave ink drawings from life subjects. These drawings 
were exhibited in London, Paris, New York, and at 
this Museum, and they found enthusiastic admirers. 
Robert Hughes wrote imaginatively of "the spectacle 



13 



of eye and brain struggling to agree. " saying that 
these small powerful images are "charged with 
curiosity about the world out there, but motivated by 
an excruciating awareness of how provisional 
seeing is. how mutable, how rarely final in its 
deductions." Barbara Rose wrote that the artist's 
"use of values . . . because of their variety and 
fullness of range from the blackest of black through 
ten or so intermediate shades of gray, until the stark 
white on the page is not. like conventional chiaroscuro, 
merely a function of illusionism. It suggests — or, 
more precisely, alludes to — a color experience." 
Prophetic words, indeed, for Arikha's new paintings 
fully depend upon and profit from the self-abnegating 
years of non-painting. The color is clear and clean, 
yet the surface quivers as if alive. The question the 
ink drawings posed — "Is this what I see?" (Barbara 
Rose) — becomes in these full-size canvases a 
profound philosophical inquiry. 

Arikha is a scholar and writer, an intellectual 
whose friends comprise an extraordinary range of 
talents in most areas of culture and science. He has 
been a guest curator at this institution, conceiving 
the exhibition Two Books: Matisse's "Jazz" and 
"The Apocalypse of St. Sever." and has taught 
courses to specialists at the Louvre in techniques 
and history of drawing. This exhibition presents 
the artist's new paintings for the first time. 

Spanish painter Eduardo Arroyo lives in 
exile in France. Arroyo's work has been 
predominantly political, with reference to the 
Franco regime, and also art-political in his frequent 
pictorial admonishments to artists such as Duchamp 
and Miro. The artist has commented that: 

It is for me a primordial force to think politically. 
I have learned to consider a picture in relation 
to an ideology. ... I was brought up in the 
interior of Franco's Spain and the memory, 
the frustrations collectively undergone, the 
hope and the pessimism have made this 
country and its history become, for me, a 
constant reality in the practice of my life and 
work. ... A practice characteristic of me: I 
cannot conceive a picture without a title. To 
title a photograph, to title a document, is to 
adopt it: it is to make it. to possess it, it is to 
make it enter the axis of a behavior — an 
attitude. My painting, actually, titles reality, 
taking for granted that I always believed in 
the force of the image: for example, when the 
student R. Juano Casanova jumps out the 
window upon the arrival of police at his home 
in Madrid, or when the wife of the miner. 
Constantina Perez Martinez, is swindled by 
the police, these titles of nobility will certainly 



remain historically fixed below a painting to 

reveal the shame and filth of thirty-five years 
of dictatorship. . . . Recent events have been 
favorable to people who consider that painting 
is an effective and intimate means to influence 
history. 

The four paintings selected for this exhibition, 
with the artist's concurrence, reflect another side of 
Arroyo's sensibility, perhaps, than these comments 
suggest: a more formal, yet more relaxed and 
humorous aspect that allows a range of sympathy, 
as so poignantly evoked in the two portraits of Jean 
Helion making his escape from a German forced- 
labor camp to France. The portrait of Valerio Adami 
and his wife, Camilla, suggests the esteem of one 
painter for another: and the fanciful satire of 
Three Young Englishmen Arriving in Paris with their 
faces comprised of strokes of paint equaling "art" 
and implying their expectations of the great art city, 
further reveals a light and imaginative aspect of 
Arroyo's achievement. (See the artist's own 
comments on these paintings.) 

In the sixties, soon after his arrival in Paris from 
Argentina. Antonio Segui brilliantly absorbed the 
styles of Bacon and Dubuffet and of certain American 
Pop artists, especially Larry Rivers. These works had 
a satiric edge to them relating to David Hockney 
while expressing Segui's own accent. Edouard Roditi 
noticed in 1964 that he seemed more able to "digest 
these borrowings" than were the French painters 
of his own generation. The critic wrote that Segui's 
style was "learned and sophisticated, but almost too 
slick in its use of old-master effects and artificial 
patina" and compared Segui to fellow Argentinian 
Jorge Luis Borges in employing a "fantastic display 
of erudition, with innumerable quotations and 
virtuoso imitations of so many different styles of 
the past." 

In the present decade Segui has moved far away 
from other art styles, and his painting has become 
more simple and direct, less artful and contrived. 
In the paintings one encounters ambitious figure 
groupings and sometimes daring perspectives. Most 
ambitious. 1 think, is the urge, especially as witnessed 
in the two paintings finished in time for this exhibition, 
to invent a new lookforthe human figure. This 
follows previous series in the seventies of animal 
paintings. All these images of Segui's take into 
account our pervasive conditioning by photography 
in everyday life. Technically they are rather odd. 
a dry combination of oil and charcoal: this heightens 
the utterly strange quality of the newer pictures, 
whereby the observer himself is made to feel rather 
like an eavesdropper or an unannounced visitor. 

Anton Heyboer only started to make paintings in 
November 1974, but he is well known as a printmaker 



14 



in his native Holland where he had retrospectives at 

The Hague. Eindhoven, and Amsterdam modern 
museums in 1967-68. To come upon his paintings 
without knowledge of his prints, as I did. is quite an 
experience, for the primitivistic paintings strike one 
as authoritative and unique, although they reveal 
knowledge — or seem to — of modern explorations 
into the art of the insane. I was struck by the 
exceptional power of Heyboer's images, aware of 
the delicacy and excruciating sensitivity of their 
execution and eager to know more about the artist 
and his work. Most of what I do know comes from 
his devoted dealer, from Edward de Wilde of the 
Stedelijk, and from J. L. Locher of The Hague 
Museum who wrote the catalog introduction in 1967. 
The paintings of Heyboer clearly reveal that he is an 
artist to whom art and the art-making process are 
as vital a necessity as air. water, food, and sexuality. 
He makes pictures in an extremely controlled and 
reflective manner, with signs and symbols that seem 
not only to derive from disturbance but to rely upon 
it. The manner in which he works — from all four 
sides — suggests an art of higher self-consciousness 
than at first appears, but is also utterly indicative of 
the way the man needs to live. I quote from the only 
writing on the artist that I know to be helpful, written 
in 1967. with much of the commentary being about 
Heyboer as a man and his life experience: 

During World War II. the Germans shipped him 
to a labor camp in Berlin (1943). After seven 
months he became desperately ill, was in fact 
left for dead wrapped in newspapers. He 
returned to live with his parents in Holland till 
the end of the war. He begins to draw animals. 

He meets the artist Jan Kagie with whom in 
1948 he tours Southern France. He now does 
traditional landscapes. At about this point, he 
leaves his family. He takes a room, paints it 
white, furnishes it with sawed off tree trunks, 
charred, which he places upside-down with 
their roots in the air. This room he shares with 
his first wife and a young man. This is the first 
of his menage-a-trois arrangements, 
characterized by having no hierarchy or human 
obligations. He becomes fascinated by stones. 
Loneliness overwhelms him. At his request he 
is institutionalized. When he is discharged, he 
emerges conscious and accepting of his 
different-ness and abnormality. 

He divorces wife number 1 (one child) in 
1953. In 1954, he marries Ernaand for awhile 
lives the artist's life in Amsterdam. A child by 
her is born in 1957. By this time he has become 
a drunk. Second divorce in 1958. In 1959 he 
marries Yvonne only to divorce her in 1960 



when he marries Maria. They leave Amsterdam 
and move to Den lip where they still reside. By 
this time the menage-a-trois involves not a 
male but a second woman. At present her name 
isLotti. 

He lives in a barn just north of Amsterdam. 
It is one room with only one small pair of 
windows, consequently, very dark. Nothing in 
the room is normative — no furniture at all, only 
a few places to lie down made of driftwood and 
a few crates. The floor is made of large very 
worn stones. He lives there with his wife Maria, 
three dogs, two cats. He is timeless and 
unconscious, like an animal. He can only exist 
in the non-normal, totally detached from his 
background and from society. As a consequence, 
his life is an attempt to make his world less and 
less structured and more open; this includes 
his relations with his wife. This could be 
characterized as immature and without form, 
hierarchy, or special obligations. He dresses 
that way, too — sexless and styleless. He aims 
to achieve a non-human open existence like the 
animals and like all that is natural. He achieves 
this through a paradoxical process, consciously 
choosing a borderland between life and death 
in order to experience both. As part of this 
middle zone he also accepts the constant pain 
and chronic aches from which he suffers. For 
him the abnormal and paradoxical must be 
continual if he is to live and survive. Normality 
is abomination to him as is an existence 
without pain. 

After Heyboer took up painting in November 1 974, 
he took on an additional wife. 



Maurice Tuchman 
Senior Curator, 
Modern Art 



Francis Bacon 
Born Dublin, 1909 
Resident London 





y^a<:^^-7 



17 



Francis Bacon: What personally I would like to do 
would be, for instance, to make portraits which were 
portraits but came out of things which really had 
nothing to do with what is called the illustrational 
facts of the image: they would be made differently, 
and yet they would give the appearance. To me, 
the mystery of painting today is how can appearance 
be made. 1 know it can be illustrated, I know it can 
be photographed. But how can this thing be made so 
that you catch the mystery of appearance within 
the mystery of the making? It's an illogical method of 
making, an illogical way of attempting to make 
what one hopes will be a logical outcome — in the 
sense that one hopes one will be able to suddenly 
make the thing there in a totally illogical way, but that 
it will be totally real and, in the case of a portrait, 
recognizable as the person. 

David Sylvester: Could one put it like this? — that 
you're trying to make an image of appearance that is 
conditioned as little as possible by the accepted 
standards of what appearance is. 

FB: That's a very good way of putting it. There's a 
further step to that: the whole questioning of 
what appearance is. There are standards set up 
as to what appearance is or should be, but there's no 
doubt that the ways appearance can be made are 
very mysterious ways, because one knows that 
by some accidental brushmarks suddenly appearance 
comes in with a vividness that no accepted way of 
doing it would have brought about. I'm always trying 
through chance or accident to find a way by which 
appearance can be there but remade out of 
other shapes. 

DS: And the otherness of those shapes is crucial. 

FB: It is. Because, if the thing seems to come off 
at all, it comes off because of a kind of darkness 
which the otherness of the shape which isn't known, 



as it were, conveys to it. For instance, one could 
make a mouth in a way — I mean, it comes 
about sometimes, one doesn't know how — I mean 
you could draw the mouth right across the face as 
though it was almost like the opening of the whole 
head, and yet it could be like the mouth. But, in trying 
to do a portrait, my ideal would really be just to 
pick up a handful of paint and throw it at the canvas 
and hope that the portrait was there. 

DS: I can see why you would want the painting to 
look as if it had come about in that way, but do 
you mean you actually want to do that? 

FB: Well, I've tried often enough. But it's never 
worked that way. I think I would like it to happen 
that way because, as you know perfectly well, if you 
have somebody painting your room, when he 
puts the first brushstroke on the wall, it's much 
more exciting than the finished wall. And, although I 
may use, or appear to use, traditional methods, 
I want those methods to work for me in a very 
different way to that in which they have worked 
before or for which they were originally formed. I'm 
not attempting to use what's called avant-garde 
techniques. Most people this century who have had 
anything to do with the avant garde have wanted 
to create a new technique, and I never have myself. 
Perhaps I have nothing to do with the avant garde. 
But I've never felt it at all necessary to try and create 
an absolutely specialized technique. I think the only 
man who didn't limit himself tremendously by 
trying to change the technique was Duchamp, who 
did it enormously successfully. But. although I may 
use what's called the techniques that have been 
handed down, I'm trying to make out of them 
something that is radically different to what those 
techniques have made before. 

DS: Why do you want it to be radically different? 

FB: Because I think my sensibility is radically 
different, and, if I work as closely as I can to my own 
sensibility, there is a possibility that the image 
will have a greater reality. 

DS: And do you still have that obsession you used to 
talk about having with doing the one perfect image? 

FB: No, I don't now. I suppose, as I get older, I 
feel I want to cover wider areas. 1 don't think that I 
have that other feeling any longer — perhaps 
because I hope to go on painting until 1 die and, 
of course, if you did the one absolutely perfect image, 
you would never do anything more. 



From Francis Bacon: 
Interviewed by David Sylvester, 
New York, 1975, 
pp. 105, 107 




18 



Francis Bacon 

Triptych (right panel), IVIay-June 1974 

Oil and pastel on canvas 

78x58 in. (198 x 147.5 cm.) 

Private collection, Sviritzerland 



Triptych, May-June 1974 




19 



FB: Well, I would like now — and I suppose it's 
through thinking about sculpture — I would like, quite 
apart from the attempt to do sculpture, to make 
the painting itself very much more sculptural. 
I do see in these images the way in which the mouth, 
the eyes, the ears could be used in painting so 
that they were there in a totally irrational way but 
a more realistic way, but I haven't come round 
yet to seeing quite how that could be done in 
sculpture, I might be able to come round to it. I do 
see all the time images that keep on coming up 
which are more and more formal and more and more 
based upon the human body, yet taken further 
from it in imagery. And I would like to make the 
portraits more sculptural, because 1 think it is 
possible to make a thing both a great image and a 
great portrait. 

DS: It's very interesting that you associate the idea 
of the great image with sculpture. Perhaps this 
goes back to your love of Egyptian sculpture? 

FB: Well, it's possible. I think that perhaps the 
greatest images that man has so far made have been 
in sculpture. I'm thinking of some of the great 
Egyptian sculpture, of course, and Greek sculpture, 
too. For instance, the Elgin Marbles in the British 
Museum are always very important to me, but I 
don't know if they're important because they're 
fragments, and whether if one had seen the whole 
image they would seem as poignant as they seem as 
fragments. And I've always thought about 
Michelangelo; he's always been deeply important 
in my way of thinking about form. But although 
I have this profound admiration for all his work, 
the work that 1 like most of all is the drawings. For me, 
he is one of the very greatest draughtsmen, 
if not the greatest. 

DS: I've often suspected, since as far back as 1 950, 



that, with many of your nude figures, certain 
Michelangelo images had been there in the back 
of your mind at least, as prototypes of the male figure. 
Do you think this has been the case? 

FB: Actually, Michelangelo and Muybridge are 
mixed up in my mind together, and so I perhaps 
could learn about positions from Muybridge and 
learn about the ampleness, the grandeur of form 
from Michelangelo, and it would be very difficult for 
me to disentangle the influence of Muybridge 
and the influence of Michelangelo. But, of course, 
as most of my figures are taken from the male nude, 
I am sure that I have been influenced by the fact 
that Michelangelo made the most voluptuous male 
nudes in the plastic arts. 

DS: Do you think that certain Michelangelo images 
of figures entwined have had an influence on your 
coupled figures? 

FB: Well, these have very often been taken from 
the Muybridge wrestlers — some of which appear, 
unless you look at them under a microscope, 
to be in some form of sexual embrace. Actually, 
I've often used the wrestlers in painting single figures, 
because I find that the two figures together have 
a thickness that gives overtones which the 
photographs of Single figures don't have. But I don't 
only look at Muybridge photographs of the figure. 
I look all the time at photographs in magazines 
of footballers and boxers and all that kind of thing — 
especially boxers. And I also look at animal 
photographs all the time. Because animal movement 
and human movement are continually linked in my 
imagery of human movement. 

DS: And are the nudes, at the same time, closely 
related to the appearance of specific people? 
Are they to some extent portraits of bodies? 

FB: Well, it's a complicated thing. I very often think 
of people's bodies that I've known, I think of 
the contours of those bodies that have particularly 
affected me, but then they're grafted very often 
onto Muybridge's bodies. I manipulate the Muybridge 
bodies into the form of the bodies I have known. 
But, of course, in my case, with this disruption 
all the time of the image — or distortion, or whatever 
you like to call it — it's an elliptical way of coming 
to the appearance of that particular body. And the 
way I try to bring appearance about makes one 
question all the time what appearance is at all. 
The longer you work, the more the mystery deepens 
of what appearance is, or how can what is called 
appearance be made in another medium. 



From Francis Bacon: 
Interviewed by David Sylvester, 
pp. 114, 116, 118 



Jean Dubuffet 

Born Le Havre, France, 1901 

Resident Paris 




)^L.ffl^K [> \^M-u^(^^4f%Xi 



Dear Ernst Beyeler; 

As for the injustice they do me about these paintings, 
certain specialists and would-be experts, as I am 
told — that they haven't been painted by my own 
hand — I find it idiotic. One shouldn't worry about 
the methods that I have chosen to execute my works, 
and it is up to me to decide that. It is not by the 
methods used that one should judge a work, it is by 
what it actually is, by its impact, and by its language; 
everything else derives from the anecdote and a 
fetishism of specialists, which has nothing to do with 
the actual virtue of the work. One should really 
suppose that if I had thought that these paintings had 
something to gain by making the copy myself, 
I would have done it, and that if I did not, it is because 
I have my reasons. It is that contrary to the other 
paintings that I had done previously, these do not 



resort to autographic effects, and even quite the 
contrary, they try to exclude them. They aim at 
an effect of impassibility and impersonality — an 
effect of absence, I would say. The method by which 
they are secured, which is to enlarge with the aid 
of a projector the sketches that had been cursively 
made on paper with a felt pen, and to carefully 
copy this enlarged image with a brush, results in 
producing paintings endowed with a very special 
characteristic which comes across as unusual and 
abnormal, since the movement of the sketches, 
if they had been improvised directly on the canvas in 
the final step, would not be at all the same as the 
one which results from the enlargement of a small 
drawing. The copy of the image with a brush 
rendered by the projector is a work where ingenuity 
has no place whatsoever, and which demands only 
patience and minuteness. To compel myself to 
do it myself would be in some measure to distort the 
significance of the work in leading the spectator 
to expect there some effect of direct improvisation 
which is precisely what I want to avoid. I shall go 
further: it was important, it was capital, in order to 
reinforce the effect of impassibility and impersonality 
that I have mentioned above, that I not put my 
hand to it. That is a principal outcome of the 
technique applied and the effect aimed at. It goes 
without saying that this technique of enlargement, 
with the copy executed by another hand, which 
is good for these paintings conceived expressly to be 
realized in this manner, would not be good for others. 
But I maintain that for these it is the sole legitimate 
and perfectly adapted technique. For paintings of 
another kind such a method would produce a 
diminution, an adulteration. For these it produces on 
the contrary, a reinforcement. These are paintings 
conceived to be executed in two successive stages. 
And it is important that to see them one feel them. 
It is possible that people conditioned by habits 
and traditions appear shocked by my attempt 
at paintings, which are completely opposed to what 
is generally accepted, and which endeavor and 
attempt to be anti-autographic, depersonalized; 
my own idea is that all methods are good to produce 
exciting work. That the executed work be exciting 
is definitely the one and only thing that counts. 
The devil with all other criteria! These paintings are 
placed beyond norms and to apply to them the 
criteria of the norm is inadequate. 



21 



Sincerely, 

Jean Dubuffet 
February 28, 1975 

From Jean Dubuffet, 
Sites, Tricolores, Paysages 
Castillans, Galerie Beyeler 
Basel, April-May 1975 




22 



Jean Dubuffet 

Tricolor Site V, 1974 

Vinyl on canvas 

763/4 X 5^V4 in, (195 x 130 cm.) 

Pace Gallery, New York 



23 



Jean Helion 
Born Couterne, 
Normandy, France, 1904 
Resident Chateauneuf-en- 
Thymerais, France 




25 



H'i6im 



Jean Helion: I've always wanted to do the same thing. 
I shall see If I was mistaken or not. I've always 
proceeded in the same direction, and I have often 
been surprised that it has not been evident. Well. 
I hope that the fifty years of work assembled will 
show that it is a continuous effort. There are no 
contradictions. ... I shall explain to you what, for me. 
is the same thing: that from the beginning, the artist 
seeks to go all the way to the aim, to the purpose of 
the painting, and that aim has several dimensions. 
There is one aim which is the very technique itself of 
the painting — the rhythms, the colors, the visual 
possibilities — that which abstraction has so well 
developed: there is another aim which derives from 
the imaginary side of the artist, who finds a revelation 
in the painting and which is unforeseeable: finally, 
there is the aim of a dialogue with what one calls the 
real, the existing — that is to say. the meeting of 
objects which comes to declare your own 
self-portrait. Painting has all those dimensions. Each 
of the stages could seem different from the other, 
but these are facets of the same reality which one 
undertakes to seize. I expect, myself, a sort of 
revelation of all that. I was aware of that. Have 
I really done it? That you will tell me. 

It is a question of priority. There is no definitive, 
complete work. There is no realized masterpiece. 
That which one terms the genre in painting is rather 
the priority given to such an aspect in this picture: 
in one. to the technique, in the other, to rhythm or to 
color: in the third, to the object, that is to say, to the 
capacity to clarify this object, to recognize in it the 
whole system of the world. 

Several times in the course of the ten years which 
I had dedicated to abstraction, I believed I had 
arrived at a state which was complete, and at that 
moment, a curiosity awakened for that which it was 
not. For example, I did abstractions, the best in my 



view, such as the one which they named //e de 
France which is at the Tate Gallery. I recall that in 
doing it. I looked through the window of my atelier, 
and I found that the exterior world was more beautiful 
than my picture. Nevertheless, I wasn't at all 
preoccupied with this outside world. But there was 
something missing in my picture. 

arTitudes: You have implied that an artist can pursue 
expression especially if there is a modulation on the 
inside. I am thinking of Hartung. One may say that at 
the age of 30. everything is implicit in his works, and 
that everything takes place in depth. There is then 
one possibility. However, in your case, there was a 
moment when this abstract expression seemed to 
you inadequate. 

JH: I believe that Hartung also has his anxieties. 

When a picture is inadequate, he starts afresh and 
intensifies it In a certain manner. There is, 
nevertheless, a certain number of definite variations, 
but he has succeeded in retaining only one 
expression. Because he has kept only one 
expression, hasn't he had but one preoccupation? 
1 have accepted that expression was a method of 
placing in evidence a truth, and that it was this truth 
that mattered. He believes that to maintain continuity 
in expression is also important. He justifies it 
thoroughly by his work. But I expect to justify in mine 
this apparent diversity which is not the search for 
diversity but the search for dimension, 

JH: You cite the word "taste" just in time. Personally, 
I have no taste. I don't like taste. If the most beautiful 
picture is in good taste, it is not that which is good 
in the picture. In essence, the Mona Lisa is of very 
poor taste after a certain time. 

aT: She is indecent, the Mona Lisa! 

JH: Indecent, that's good. That means: "brave," 
Indecency is a word of virtue, it seems to me. It means 
that one exposes what one usually arbitrarily 
conceals. Long live indecency. But that was not my 
intent: I sought only to be true. If, being true, I am 
indecent, thank you. You have given me the finest 
compliment 1 could wish. 

aT: Do you have the feeling that your work Is 

indecent? 

JH: No, it always appeared to me natural. It is rather 

my friends or my opponents who told me that my 
work was indecent. They revealed me to myself. 
It is not wrong to tell someone that he is naked. It's 
what one can do at best to reveal himself. It is 
arbitrary that culture, that civilization disguised us, 
and covered man with — I don't know what — rags. 

aT: Without even taking a picture V\ke Four Seated 

Nudes, which is an indecent work, according to a 
strict code. I see a level more indecent in your work. 




26 



Jean Helion 

Marketplace Triptych (right panel), 1973-74 

Acrylic on canvas 

783/4 X 110 in. (200 x280 cm.) 

Galerle Karl Fllnker, Paris 



Marketplace Triptych, 1973-74 




27 



The one of placing a cabbage on a table and painting 
It today. That seems to me something extremely 
indecent. 

JH: Now there is a definition of the word indecent 
that I take as a compliment. A woman who has her 
eyes open and who shows the treasures she has, 
how can one call that indecency, except that if 
indecency means that it is very good. And if I place 
a cabbage on the table, it is because it is worthy of 
being there. I find that a cabbage is as beautiful as 
a rose, and I put it in a pot like a bouquet of roses. 
By indecent, don't you want to say liberating, finally? 
Liberating! Myself, I placed a cabbage in the arms 
of a woman thinking that she carried there a bouquet 
of flowers. I studied this cabbage. I showed the 
rhythm of its leaves, which is superb, it seems to me. 
A cabbage is a magnificent rose, which is green, 
which costs one franc a kilo, and which one also eats. 
Why not? That suits me fine. I have the impression 
that a large quantity of beauty, upon giving beauty 
its most extensive meaning, is misused, and that one 
of the roles of the artist is to go to look for it. to show 
it, and above all, to give it. Not to sell it, to give it. 
A particular style of a painter was spoken of which 
permitted its own recognition. Isn't it very 
extraneous? Isn't it the profound subject matter of 
an artist that matters? "If I don't have any blue. I'll 
take red," Picasso used to say. He was right. He 
wished to say, that it was not the blue that mattered, 
nor the red, but what he was going to do with it. 
I have said sometimes that with a finger in the dust, 
one makes a stroke as important as with the rarest 
colors. It is the stroke that counts. Give me anything, 
and I will make a painting. Because for a long time 
one neglected materials, artists have now been led 
to exalt them, to study them profoundly. That was 
very well: one tries to bring up to date a thing 
neglected. Once it is up to date, we have returned 
to the general domain. It is not important any more. 



One material is as good as another. A little plaster 
was always sufficient to realize the most beautiful 
visual thing in the world. We must go back and exalt 
the forgotten things. Upon placing a cabbage in a 
vase. I believe that I do justice to this superb flower 
which has been made a cooking vegetable. The world 
is beautiful from one end to the other. It is beautiful 
between the legs, it is beautiful at the level of a 
cabbage, it is beautiful everywhere. It is somewhat 
odious, this idea of decency. It is an appalling police 
posture by which we are forced to have certain 
attitudes or certain tastes. We should destroy all 
these barriers. And this is one of the roles of artists: 
to restore liberty to forms, to colors, to the subject 
when there is one, to objects, to materials, to 
everything. 

al: Let us say in conclusion that artistic creation 

such as it may be, can play a role in the evolution of 
man, at least to the degree that it is truly free. 

JH: Yes! We are champions of freedom. One does not 

take us for fighters because we are very tender 
people, we love. That's the indecency: love. To dare 
to love a cabbage, to dare to love a triangle, it is the 
same thing. It's the same indecency. I had the feeling 
of approaching the world, loving the world with the 
same freedom as had Mondrian who dared to love 
a sign of the cross. He loved it to the point of 
destroying it: at the end of his life there is no more 
than a bewilderment of bits. Let us speak of love. 
It is love today that is indecent. 



From "L' indecence d'aimer," 

an interview with Jean Helion 

by Frangois Pluchart reprinted from 

the magazine arTitudes, no. 21/23, 

as a catalog for Helion, 

50 Years of Painting, the Galerie 

Karl Flinker, May 22-June 30, 1975 



Joan Miro 

Born Barcelona, 1893 

Resident Mallorca 





29 



/ work like a gardener. 

... I find the favorable atmosphere for this tension in 
poetry, music, architecture — Gaudi, for example, 
is amazing — in my daily walks, in certain noises: 
the noise of horses in the country, the crunching of 
wooden cartwheels, the steps, the cries in the night, 
the crickets. 

The spectacle of the cry agitates me. 

I am agitated when I see, in the immense sky, the 
crescent of the-moon or the sun. There are, besides, 
in my pictures, some very little shapes in the large 
empty spaces. The empty spaces, the empty horizons, 
the empty planes, all that is cast off always 
Impresses me very much. 

In the contemporary visual climate, I like factories, 
night lights, the world seen from a plane. I owe one 
of the greatest emotions of my life to the flight from 
Washington at night. 

Seen from the airplane, the night, a city, it is a 
wonder. And then, by plane, one sees everything. 
A small individual, even a very small doe. one sees it. 
And that takes on an enormous importance, as in 
absolute darkness, during a night flight, above the 
country, one or two lights of country people. 

The simplest things give me ideas. A plate in which 
a peasant eats his soup, I like that better than 
ridiculously rich plates of rich people. 

Popular art always moves me. There is no trickery 
or fraud in this art. It goes directly to the point. 
It surprises, and it is so rich in possibilities. 

For me, an object is alive. This cigarette, this box 
of matches contain a secret life much more Intense 
than certain humans. When I see a tree, I receive a 



shock, as if it were something that breathes, that 
speaks. A tree is also something human. 

immobility strikes me. This bottle, this glass, a large 
pebble on a deserted beach, these are the immobile 
things, but they release, in my soul, great movements. 

Just as the harmony of the body is of the same 
nature as an arm, a hand, a foot, everything must be 
homogeneous in a picture. 

In mine, there is a sort of sanguine circulation. 
If aform is misplaced, and this circulation stops: 
the equilibrium is broken. 

When a canvas does not satisfy me, I feel a physical 
discomfort, as if i were ill, as if my heart didn't 
function well, as if I could no longer breathe, 
as if I were suffocating. 

I work in a state of passion and rapture. When I 
begin a canvas, I obey a physical impulse, the need to 
fling myself; it is like a physical discharge or release. 

Of course, canvas cannot satisfy me Immediately. 
And, at first, I experience a discomfort which I have 
described for you. But as I am the combative sort 
In those things, I begin the struggle. 

It is a struggle between me and what I do, between 
me and the canvas, between me and my discomfort. 
This struggle excites me and thrills me. I work until 
the discomfort ceases. 

I begin my pictures under the effect of a shock, 
which I feel strongly and which makes me escape 
reality. The cause of this shock may be a little thread 
which breaks away from the canvas, a drop of water 
that falls, this imprint that my finger leaves on the 
brilliant surface of this table. 

At any rate, I need a point of departure, be it a grain 
of dust or a burst of light. This form begets a series 
of things, one thing giving birth to another thing. 

Thus a piece of thread can release a world for me. 

I work like a gardener or like a wine grower. The 
things come slowly. My vocabulary of forms, for 
example. I did not discover at once. It was formed 
almost in spite of myself. 

Things follow their natural course. They grow, they 
mature. It is necessary to graft. It is necessary to 
irrigate as for a green salad. That ripens in my mind. 
I also always work at a great many things at the same 
time. And even in different domains: painting, 
engraving, lithography, sculpture, ceramics. 

The subject matter, the tools dictate to me a 
technique, a means of giving life to a thing. If I attack 
wood with a gouge, it puts me in a certain state of 
mind. If I attack a lithograph stone with a brush or 
a copper plate with an etching needle, that puts me 
in other states of mind. The encounter of the tool and 
the subject matter produces a shock which is 
something alive and which I think will have a 
repercussion upon the spectator. 

In a picture, one must be able to discover new 
things every time one sees it. But one may look at a 



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30 



Joan Miro 

SobreteiximXVI, 1973 
Paint, burlap, yarn, 
and fabric on woven ground 
741/2 X 124 in. (189 x315 cm.; 
Galerie IVlaeght, Zurich 



picture for a week and not think about it anymore. 
One may also look at a picture for a second and think 
about it all one's life. For me, a picture must be like 
sparks. It must dazzle like the beauty of a woman or 
a poem. It must have a radiance, it should be like 
those stones which the Pyrenean shepherds use to 
light their pipes. 

More than the picture itself what counts is what it 
hurls into the air, what it scatters. It matters little 
that the picture may be destroyed. Art may die; what 
matters is that it has spread the seeds on the earth. 
Surrealism pleased me because the surrealists did 
not consider painting as an end, a painting: actually 
one should not concern himself that it remains as 
such, but rather that it leaves seeds, that it spreads 
the seed from which other things are born. 

The picture must be productive. It must give birth 
to a world. One may see these flowers, people, 
horses, no matter what, provided that they reveal 
a world, something living. 

I feel the need to attain the maximum intensity with 
the minimum of means. This is what led me to give to 
painting a more and more stripped-down character. 

To really become a man, one should release 
himself from the self. In my case, it is necessary to 
cease being Miro. That is to say, a Spanish painter, 
belonging to a society limited by its frontiers, its 
social and bureaucratic conventions. In other words, 
one should go toward anonymity. 

Anonymity always ruled in the great epochs. And 
today, one feels the need of it, more and more. 

But, at the same time, one feels the need of an 
absolutely individual action, completely anarchical 
from the social point of view. 

Why? Because an act profoundly individual is 
anonymous. Anonymous, it allows one to attain the 
universal. I am convinced of it: the more a thing is 
local, the more it is universal. 



Joan Miro 

From XX^ siecle mensuel, 

vol. 1, no. 1, February 15, 1959; 

reprinted in the catalog for Joan Miro 

at the Grand Palais, 

May 17-October13, 1974 



31 



Valerio Adami 
Bom Bologna, 1935 
Resident Paris 
and Arona, Italy 





33 




34 



Valerio Adami 

Concerto for Four Hands, 1975 

Acrylic on canvas 

95% X 143% in. (243 x 365 cm.) 

Galerie IVIaeght, Paris 



35 



Pierre Alechinsky 
Born Brussels, 1927 
Resident Bouguival, 
France 





37 



It doesn't tempt me anymore, painting In oil. Seduced 
by lack of knowledge of the matter, I have erred 
about the materials for twenty years. In disorder, 
here is the incomplete list of what I detest today: the 
lead tubes concealing the true color of their contents, 
wherein the decision, the need to have to open 
them; the hard brushes of sole de pore suited to give 
a first coating of a mark on a door; the dirt at the 
bottom of the saucer; the too frequent prophetic step 
forward; the everlasting three steps backward; the 
position of the combatant on his feet; the immaculate 
canvas — conceivably — which awaits white and 
mocking on the easel, the instrument which 
resembles the invention of Monsieur Guillotin; the 
work of gravity, this fluid color flowing as from 
thetopof a jarof jam; the heavy intractable paste; 
the knife which has scraped too much; then waiting 
days, weeks for it to dry; to find later cracks and 
ageing; having found in it (the oil painting) so rarely 
the freshness of the ink sketch or the cadence 
and the report of the welcome drawing. 

My first painting in acrylic dates from 1965. I was 
painting on a sheet of paper in Walasse Ting's 
studio in New York; I took this sheet to France. 
I began to observe it pinned to the wall while 
sketching row by row on long strips of rice paper. 
I pinned these around; I had just organized Central 
Park, my first painting with marginal notes. 
I fastened everything upon a canvas backing: first 
superimposition. I was soon going to break myself 
away from painting in oil. I had never allowed 
myself these reorganizations, movements, comings 
and goings. 

Ideal medium: spring water in full quantity. Prop: a 



single sheet of paper peel which tailors use, called 
cutting paper. I spread the paper in the sun and 
it awaits me. The colors and the water fill a number of 
identical basins — I know their weight — the right 
hand which does not know the brush keeps them each 
in their turn. The tool: this same Japanese brush 
which serves me completely for the sketch, 
the painting, the print. Nine centimeters of goat hair 
mounted upon nineteen centimeters of choice 
bamboo. With it, with them (water, color, basin, brush, 
paper), I go from the drawing to the painting by 
successive coatings of materials and ideas, 
half-transparent, half-opaque; some letting them- 
selves penetrate as if they regret the shadows from 
which they flee, others sparing themselves, 
putting aside what will finally be saved. 

To draw an image with no matter what, no matter 
where (tablecloth of a restaurant, a few drops of 
wine, the tip of a finger) will not erase the memory 
of the prop felt, the ductile material, the chosen tool. 
It still remains to unite space and light, silence 
or music. To have time. To be in physical condition. 
To have morale, no longer to look indefinitely out 
the window. To receive the image without labeling it. 
To utilize the situation in its entirety. To let it come. 
To connect. 

LikeSwann: to say that 1 have suffered so much 
for a woman (read: technique) who was not my type. 

On your work table have first a collection of 
pencils on hand (I offer you this one), take care that 
they are perfectly sharpened (this little penknife 
is yours now). You will doubtless commit some 
errors, so you will also need this eraser (here it is), 
and, for a final copy, always a clean pen (it is yours). 
Ink. Not forgetting this paint scraper the edge of 
which you will regularly sharpen on this Arkansas 
stone (please), for they concern no one, your 
erasures, they have to be invisible, etc. It is thus that 
Rimsky-Korsakov gave his first lesson in composition 
to Igor Stravinsky. Manuel Rosenthal dixit. 

Most of all. I shall miss the intoxicating perfume of 
turpentine that Marcel Duchamp discovered, for 
which alone many painters should not have 
abandoned their passion. Which enterprising 
druggist will propose to his clientele of artists having 
chosen acrylic (versatile and smart, but with a 
vague musty odor of ammonia disinfectant) a 
vaporizer bottle spreading the fragrance all over? 
The label would read: Incense of the studio. 



Pierre Alechinsky, "Les moyens du 

bord," from Pierre Alechinsky, 
Museum Boymans-van Beuningen, 
Rotterdam, November 15, 1974- 
January 15, 1975, and Musee d'Art 
Moderns de la Ville de Paris, 
February 5-April 6, 1975 




38 



Pierre Alechinsky 

Chagrin granat, 1973 

Acrylic on canvas 

621/4 X 603/4 in. (159 x 154 cm.) 

Private collection; courtesy Lefebre 

Gallery, New York 



39 



Avigdor Arikha 
Born Romania, 1929; 
to Israel 1946; 
to Paris 1949 
Resident Paris, 
frequent trips 
to Israel 








Observation and imagination seem in turn to govern 
art history. Brief periods dominated by observation 
(objective trutli, nature) like the two or three decades 
of High Renaissance, Early Baroque, or 
Impressionism are follovi/ed by longer periods 
dominated by imagination ("maniera," stylistic 
experiment) like the fifty or sixty years of 
Mannerism or Modernism. However, there is no 
clear-cut division between the two orientations, and 
their dividing line would seem like the division 
between two connected seas. Hence the recurrent 
confusion when the periodic change sets in. 
Suddenly all that was credible is no longer so. 
Doubt sets in. But what may appear to the future to 
be a change in orientation is actually felt by the 
solitary artist as a disoriented path. His step is in 
darkness (contrary to the strongly oriented collective 
styles). Style grows from within. It is to the artist 
what the sound of voice is to oneself: a quality 
of truth. 



Avigdor Arikha 
July 1975 



41 




42 



Avigdor Arikha 

Interior, 1975 

Oil on canvas 

76% X 51 1/4 in. (195 x130 cm.) 

Collection of the artist 



43 



Eduardo Arroyo 
Born Madrid, 1937 
Resident Positano, 
Italy, and Paris 





45 



After a nearly total eclipse lasting almost fifteen 
years, the idea that the United States seems 
interested again in European painting surprises and 
fascinates me simultaneously. While in Europe we 
were constantly kept in touch with every little fact 
concerning the evolution of any American artistic 
activity, it seemed that a black out had fallen over the 
othersideof the Atlantic, prohibiting any cultural 
and artistic interest. Therefore, I enthusiastically join 
this first and courageous initiative, fully realizing the 
handicap that exists, and hoping that this enterprise 
is the start of a real dialogue between European 
and American painters. 

I said handicap. How can 1 be judged from the four 
recent paintings that will represent me in this 
exhibition? How can the political and cultural 
itinerary that I have pursued and have called my 
own and that of my generation's be understood 
through these four works? 

Helion said one day that he painted what he loved, 
whereas I painted what I didn't love. It is true. When 
I started painting in the early sixties, I didn't want to 
be a painter. Consider the situation of painting in 
Europe at that time: an exclusive heritage of abstract 
painting, a School of Paris omnipresent, yet bloodless 
and agonized. One had to create a healthy reaction, 
paint something else, fight. And only the politico- 
cultural fight interested us. There were only a few of 
us, isolated. Nobody was interested in an "anecdotal" 
and therefore — of course — aggressive painting. 
Only action was important to us: our aim was the 
change and transformation of society. Of course, 
I painted what I didn't like. I wanted to combat 
fascism in all its forms, to combat all police forces, 
oppressions, shameful compromises, treasons, and 
hypocrisies, all the Civil Guards, the Bonapartes, the 
senile Churchills, the fake idols, the hollow and 



misleading slogans, the greased moustached 
torturers, the Conchitas with castanettes, the 
Caudillos. As a reaction against the painting in power, 
the established painting, against the empty and 
meandering abstractionism of the sixties, we were 
just a few, painting ideological canvases, and why 
not say so: diverse. This led to the posters of 
May 1968. 

I didn't take myself to be a painter. I could have 
found some other way to say what I wanted to say. 
The fact is it was easier for me to express it with a 
brush and colors. 

Take, however, the paintings which you will exhibit. 
Three English Painters Arriving in Paris. OK, it is an 
attack again. I paint what I don't like: vain and 
abrasive painters, without principles, delinquents in 
a certain sense. Privileged people accepted by 
mediocrities. Not because they are English, of 
course, but because they are the buffoons of a 
society they flatter, and which flatters them back. 
I have painted a whole series of these palette-skinned, 
color-spattered faced gangster-painters. 

But the three other paintings are portraits of 
friends, a selection from a family portrait, in a way. 
You see, suddenly I had the need to paint what 
I like, the people I love, Helion, Saul Steinberg, 
Valerio Adami, Gilles Aillaud, Aldo Mondino ... all 
friends, painters: I felt no need to spatter their faces. 
Looking back, how could I do all this? I'm surprised, 
intrigued, I do not always recognize myself, but I do 
not deny anything. I will never be a painter with a 
wisely deducted and permanent vocabulary. Violent 
satire, abrupt changes in style will probably remain 
the characteristics of my expression. I will never be 
a triumphant painter, a painter-painter. I cannot 
breathe without irony. For me, painting is not a pretty 
gesture, an ensemble of little sensitive touches; 
no, it's a unified mass, a strong and irrevocable 
decision to make. 

At the other end, I think the public evolves in the 
same way. Finished now is the time of facility, 
finished are the fat years of paintings of easy virtue. 
We are in the process of experiencing a general 
austerity, a new consciousness at all levels, and the 
reading of works will be done much more seriously, 
and the demands made will be greater at all levels 
and in all places. 



Eduardo Arroyo 

Summer 1975 

Translated by Dani^ie Thompson 




46 



Eduardo Arroyo 

Three Young English Painters 

Arriving in Paris, 1974 

Oil on canvas 

51 Va X 633/4 in. (130 x162 cm.) 

H. R. Astrup, Oslo 



47 



Frank Auerbach 
Born Berlin, 1931; 
to England, 1939 
Resident London 




f}i!U{/c J^miM^^ 



My aim is to record the mind's grasp of its matter. 

To render a sensation of something specific, fully 
tangible; which requires imagination. 

I hope to celebrate the truth after having 
exhausted the stock of lies, as one might find oneself 
telling the truth after a quarrel. 



Frank Auerbach 
June 1975 



49 




50 



Frank Auerbach 
Head oM.y./W., 1974 
Oil on board 
28x24 in. (71 x 61 cm.) 
Tom Eyton, London 



51 



^ r 



Peter Blake 
Born Dartford, 
Kent, England, 1932 
Resident Somerset, 
England 










/ 




There was a time toward the end of the 1 960s when I 
was having to spend more time tall<ing and writing 
about what Pop Art was than I was able to spend 
on paintings, so I moved from London to Somerset 
and stopped writing about my work; I managed 
to avoid doing so until now. 

I had already said that I would sooner not write 
something for this catalog, until yesterday, when I 
had a telephone call from Ron Kitaj, who explained 
some things about the exhibition; he told me 
quite briefly, so it is quite possible that I may have 
gotten afewof the facts slightly wrong. He said this 
is the first mixed show of European painting in 
the U.S.A. in twenty years, which is certainly 
surprising, but I do remember that when I visited the 
Museum of Modern Art in New York, the only English 
painting on show was a Francis Bacon. Of course, 
Francis Bacon is a marvelous painter, but there 
is also a lot of other very good painting going on in 
Europe. So, I hope you will enjoy this glimpse of 
what is being done here. 

A show which contains both Bacon and Balthus, 
and some of the other painters who are exhibiting 
(at the time of writing I don't know everyone in 
the exhibition) should be an exciting event. It is a 
show I would very much like to see. 



Peter Blake 
July 1975 



53 




54 



Peter Blake 

Ebony Tarzan, 1972 

Watercolor 

113/4 x4% in.(30x 12 cm.) 

Anya and Laura Waddington, London 



55 



Lucian Freud 
Born Berlin, 1922; 
to England, 1932 
Resident London 




Lucian Freud 



57 




58 



Lucian Freud 

Annie and Alice, 1975 

Oil on canvas 

8% X 10% in. (22.6 X 27 cm.) 

Anthony D'Offay and 

James Kirl<man, London 



59 



Anton Heyboer 
Bom Sabang, former 
Netherlands East Indies, 1924 
Resident Holland 




^.^^.u 




3?^'*' 







(flt/VV'V"^^"^ W-^^vVn; 



\ 



After the war, '40-'45, to act as a normal person for 
^i /~^ me had no sense, but I found a way out of madness 
' (and the asylum) through creating a system that 
became a sign. 
I do not consider myself an artist. 
The fact that some people find beauty in my signs 
I love; the fact that they want to give money in 
exchange for them makes it possible for me to live 
my own abnormal life in freedom. 



Anton Heyboer 
June 1975 



61 




62 



Anton Heyboer 

Untitled, 1975 

Oil and lacquer on canvas 

78% x59ln. (200 x 150 cm.) 

Private collection 



63 



David Hockney 
Born Bradford, 
Yorkshire, 
England, 1937 
Resident Paris 
and London 




^;f^>^-^^ 




I have only ever written about my work when 
requested by museum officials or catalog compilers. 
I have never thought it necessary as my paintings 
seem to me to be self-explanatory; indeed, my 
attitude to titles has always been that if I didn't think 
of or find a poetic one then a literal description of 
what is on the paper or canvas would do, example, 
a drawing of paper flowers, Flowers Made of 
Paper and Ink. 

Nevertheless, if a short statement is in order then 
I can say that my primary interest is in pictures of 
all kinds — paintings, drawings, photographs, films, 
prints, etc., but best of all, I like handmade pictures; 
consequently, I paint them myself. They always have 
a subject and a little bit of form. Balancing the two 
makes me, I suppose, a traditional painter. I am in 
complete sympathy with W. H. Auden's lines: 



To me, art's subject is the human clay 
And landscape but a background to a torso 
Cezanne's apples I would give away 
For a small Goya or a Daumier. 



David Hockney 
July 1975 



65 











^^ 






^X' 


i 






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'^'^:-.^ 






66 



David Hockney 

Two Vases in the Louvre, 1974 

Oil on canvas 

721/2 X 60 in. (184 x 152.4 cm.) 

Kasmin Ltd., London 



67 



Jean-Olivier Hucleux 
Born Chauny, France, 1923 
Resident Andresy, France 




o 



^ , O • ^■^ ^ eJ^fi-u. o<:^ 



I have always had a desire to paint; it is not always a 

pleasure, it is simply my work. I paint because, 
no doubt, I've come into this world tor that. I have 
made myself available. I did not know that I was 
going to paint. I made these cemeteries, it did not 
come from me, I merely recognized that that was it. 
The ideas are more precise for me coming from 
the outside. 1 desire them and it is the force of this 
desire that opens the doors. This shocked me 
somewhat because a sort of depression came over 
me. I said to myself: "I don't know why, but 1 must 
do it," and now, I understand why it was necessary to 
do it. I know why I had to paint cemeteries. 
A cemetery is a silent subject, as is a human being. 
Besides portraits and cemeteries, I don't see 
anything much as a subject, and perhaps 1 see 
nothing at all. 

I arrive in my studio with a photograph, and I leave 
with a painting — what happened? I made a 
painting. I did not make a photograph, but a painting 
which has its own life. A painting must become 
incarnate and it cannot become incarnate except 
through a real meaning, the slide serving as a 



reference. I paint under projection. I set up my 

painting by drawing the outlines — the outlines in the 
smallest details, as much as possible — but on 
a natural scale. It is impossible to have access to the 
imponderables of a photograph because everything 
becomes entangled. Then, I begin to paint, to 
make a base somewhat in monochrome, in half-tones, 
and on these half-tones, the shadows and the lights. 
Then, 1 have to obtain these half-shadows, these 
half-lights, always these nuances of every detail. 
When 1 make a light or a shadow, 1 know that that's it 
or is not. it is a sort of intuitive approach, which 
proves that it is not a photograph, that it is 
something else. 

To work from a photograph is really a discipline in 
the sense that one must continually efface oneself. 
Now there is a sort of contradiction there with 
the fact that I efface myself continually in order to 
finally intervene, but when I do intervene, I still 
efface myself. I can spend my entire life on one 
painting. 1 have never stopped effacing myself; 
a painting is never but started, it is never finished. 

If I painted from nature, I would make my 
Intelligence intervene and at that point, 1 would limit 
myself. I preferto be engulfed, and to be in a 
difficult situation. I am very much afraid for myself, 
because I am an obstacle. To prove my intelligence 
does not interest me at all, I prefer to abandon 
myself completely to all possible difficulties. 

What makes the greatest demand on my time is the 
technical work. It is then that things happen. It is 
rather mysterious. I don't know exactly how to speak 
about it. I am so polarized by my work. I am so 
abandoned to this hole, to this vacuum. 

Painting is as hermetic as playing cards; they are 
similar — in a single image, one manages to say 
many things. When you make a painting you really 
say a number of things to the one who wishes to 
be silent and listen to the painter. It is a work of 
restitution which can finally be placed on the plane of 
metaphysics. It is from that moment that it becomes 
an element of speed. A painting is something 
which is launched, which then continues to go very 
rapidly. Time does not exist anymore for it. 
and there comes a moment when there is something 
that I do not understand myself: it is that time 
existsforthosethings that one sees in a temporal 
manner, and time does not exist anymore for an 
element of restored life. I find that the act of painting 
is something extraordinary. There is in it an aspect 
of mysticism. 1 believe that the act of arriving at 
painting is as rare as sanctity. 



69 



An extract from an interview with 
Jean-Olivier Hucleux by Jennifer 
Gough-Cooper and Jacques Caumont. 
Andresy, France, June 1975 




70 



Jean-Olivier Hucleux 

Cemetery #6, 1974 

Oil on laminated plywood 

78% X 118 in. (200 x300 cm.) 

Centre National d'Artet 

de Culture Georges Pompidou 

Musee National d'Art Moderne, Paris 



71 



R. B. Kitaj 

Born Cleveland, Ohio, 
1932; to London, 1957 
Resident London 
and Catalonia, Spain 



Li^ 



t- f"^ 




M 



'••» 





A.^. A 




There are great reforms in the air and our art will not 
remain behind where it is now. The art is ripe for 
fundamental changes more considerable than the 
sequence of events introduced into it around 1900; 
changes more truly revolutionary because more 
widespread, touching wider instincts among men and 
women. People say to me: art has always been for 
the few. Maybe so, but what a challenge! Can It 
not become the most advanced direction to work to 
change all that? Our twin masters, art for the few 
and art for art's sake, are so old-fashioned, so 
retrograde, so weak now that their terminal clasp on 
our western societies has to give way to more 
enriching alliances. It is fascinating to me that the 
road ahead is blocked among us by so many failures 
of imagination. I know very few artists who can 
even imagine the possibility of an art which is both 
good and more widely social, let alone what such an 
art might look like. My own problem is that I am 
haunted by our art having become so hopelessly 
alienated from everyone else. 

There are many forces not taken to be the province 
of painting which hold my attention and move me 
to think that the essence of a reformation is at hand, 
crucial for an art which would align itself for the 
first time outside its own processes. Some of these 
are: historical unhappiness and the profound 
questions of socialism and freedom, goodness and 
despair. 

There is an everlasting instinct to represent people 
in their concerns, in their plenitude. How to do It 
well is a great work. Anything less than that is 
less than that. 



R. B. Kltaj 
July 1975 



73 




74 



R. B. Kitaj 

Bill at Sunset, 1973 

Oil on canvas 

96x30 in. (244 x76 cm.) 

Collection of the artist 



75 



Antonio Segui 
Born Cordoba, 
Argentina, 1934; 
to Paris, 1963 
Resident Paris 



I 



O -- -0 







77 




78 



Antonio Segui 

Bulldog in San Vicente, 1975 
Charcoal and pastel on canvas 
76% X 763/4 in. (195 x 195 cm.) 
Lefebre Gallery, New York 



79 



I. 

Francis Bacon 

Jvjo Figures with a Monl<ey, 1 973 

Oil on canvas 

78x58 in. (198 x 147.5 cm.) 

Private collection, Switzerland 

II. 

Francis Bacon 

Triptych. May-June 1974 

Oil and pastel on canvas 

Each panel 78 x 58 in. (198 x 147.5 cm.) 

Private collection, Switzerland 

III. 

Jean Dubuffet 

Figure IV, 1 974 

Vinyl on stratified panel — varnished 

48% X 621/4 in.(124x 158 cm.) 

Pace Gallery. New York 

IV. 

Jean Dubuffet 

Tricolor Site V. 1974 

Vinyl on canvas 

76% X 511/4 in. (195 x130 cm.) 

Pace Gallery, New York 



Jean Dubuffet 

Factory Exit, 1 974 

Vinyl on canvas 

83x511/4 in. (211 X 130 cm.) 

Private collection, Chicago 

VI. 

Jean Dubuffet 

Castilian Landscape with One Figure, 

1974 

Vinyl on canvas 

661/2 x45in. (169 x 114 cm.) 

Galerie Beyeler, Basel 



^\y\jy 



;ve 



VII. 

Jean Helion 

Exorcism. 1973 

Acrylic on canvas 

63 X 38 in. (160 x97 cm.) 

Galerie Karl Flinker, Paris 

VIII. 

Jean Helion 

Marketplace Triptych, 1973-74 

Acrylic on canvas 

78% X 110 in. (200 x280 cm.) 

78% x 57 in. (200 x 145 cm.) 

78% X 110 in. (200 x280 cm.) 

Galerie Karl Flinker, Paris 



IX. 

Joan Miro 

Sobreteixim X, 1973 

Paint, fabric, 

and yarn on woven ground 

821/2 X 65% in. (220 x 167 cm.) 

Pierre Matisse Gallery, New York 

X. 

Joan Miro 

Sobreteixim XII, 1973 

Paint, metal, 

and fabric on woven ground 

70% x 891/4 in. (187 x 227 cm.) 

Pierre Matisse Gallery, New York 

XI. 

Joan Miro 

Sobreteixim XVI, 1 973 

Paint, burlap, yarn, 

and fabric on woven ground 

741/2 x 124 in. (189 x315 cm.) 

Galerie Maeght, Zurich 



1. 

Valerio AdamI 

The Screen, 1974 

Acrylic on canvas 

104x135 in. (264 x343 cm.) 

Galerie Maeght, Paris 

2. 

Valerio Adami 

The Mechanism of Adventure, 1975 

Acrylic on canvas 

95% x71 in. (243 x180 cm.) 

Galerie Maeght, Paris 



Valerio Adami 

Concerto for Four Hands, 1975 

Acrylic on canvas 

95% X 143% in. (243 x 365 cm.) 

Galerie Maeght, Paris 



Pierre Alechinsky 

Antecedents of the Subject, 1969-70 
Acrylic on canvas 
63x77 in. (160 x 196 cm.) 
Private collection; courtesy Lefebre 
Gallery, New York 

5. 

Pierre Alechinsky 

Stay with Us. 1973 

Acrylic on canvas 

45x61 in.(114x 155 cm.) 

Private collection; courtesy Lefebre 

Gallery, New York 



80 



V 



Pierre Alechinsky 

Chagrin granat, 1973 

Acrylic on canvas 

621/4 X 603/4 in. (159 x 154 cm.) 

Private collection: courtesy Lefebre 

Gallery, New York 

7. 

Pierre Alechinsky 

Night Service, 1 974 

Acrylic on canvas 

45x60ye in. (114 x154 cm.) 

Lefebre Gallery. New York 



"Avigdor Arikha 
Hanging Shirt, ^975 
Oil on canvas 
453/4 x35in. (116 x89 cm.; 
Collection of the artist 



Avigdor Arikha 

Brown Coat, 1975 

Oil on canvas 

571/2 x35in. (146 x89 cm.) 

Collection of the artist 

10. 

Avigdor Arikha 

Interior, 1975 

Oil on canvas 

763/4 x 51 1/4 in. (195x130 cm.) 

Collection of the artist 

11. 

Avigdor Arikha 

Anne Seated, 1975 

Oil on canvas 

571/2 x45in. (146 x114 cm.) 

Mrs. Anne Arikha, Paris 

12. 

Eduardo Arroyo 

Three Young English Painters Arriving 

in Paris, 1 974 

Oil on canvas 

511/4 X 633/4 in. (130 X 162 cm.) 

,H. R. Astrup, Oslo 



vA 



Eduardo Arroyo 

Camilla and Valeria Adami, Full Face, 

1974 

Oil on canvas 

71 X 783/4 in. (180 x200 cm.) 

H.N. Astrup, Oslo 



14. 

Eduardo Arroyo 

Jean Helion, Escaping, en Route from 

Pomerania to Paris, Full Face, 1974 

Oil on canvas 

391/2 x32in. (100x81 cm.) 

Galerie Karl Flinker, Paris 

15. 

Eduardo Arroyo 

Jean Helion, Escaping, en Route from 

Pomerania to Paris, Rear View, 1974 

Oil on canvas 

391/2 x32in. (100x81 cm.) 

Galerie Karl Flinker, Paris 

16. 

Frank Auerbach 

Head of E.O.W., 1972 

Oil on panel 

133/8 x8% in. (34x22 cm.) 

Private collection, London 

17. 

Frank Auerbach 

Head of Paula Eyies, 1972 

Oil on board 

12% x 121/4 in. (31.5x31.1 cm.) 

Private collection, London 

18. 

Frank Auerbach 

Reclining Figure, 1972 

Oil on board 

15x 16in. (38x41 cm.) 

Mr. and Mrs. Yves-Andre Istel. New York 

19. 

Frank Auerbach 

Head of E.O.W. - Profile, 1972 

Oil on board 

20x171/2 in. (51 x44cm.) 

Private collection, Switzerland 

20. 

Frank Auerbach 
Gerda Boehm, 1971-73 
Oil on board 
24x28 in. (61 x 71 cm.) 
Private collection 

21. 

Frank Auerbach 

Spring Morning — Primrose Hill Study, 

1974-75 

Oil on board 

42x54 in. (106.5 x 137 cm.) 

Marlborough Fine Art (London) Ltd. 



22. 

Frank Auerbach 
Head oM.y.M., 1974 
Oil on board 
28x24 in. (71 x 61 cm.) 
Tom Eyton, London 

V23. 

Peter Blake 

Pretty Boy Michael Angelo, 1972 

Watercolor 

8x41/2 in. (20x 11 cm.) 

Anya and Laura Waddington, London 

24. 

Peter Blake 

Ebony Tarzan, 1972 

Watercolor 

11% x4% In. (30x12 cm.) 

Anya and Laura Waddington, London 

25. 

Peter Blake 

Red Power, 1972 

Watercolor 

8x338 in. (20x9 cm.) 

Anya and Laura Waddington, London 

26. 

Peter Blake 

Penny Black, 1972 

Watercolor 

9x41/2 in. (23x11 cm.) 

Anya and Laura Waddington, London 

27. 

Peter Blake 

The Tuareg, 1972 

Watercolor 

10x5% in. (25 X 14 cm.) 

Anya and Laura Waddington, London 

28. 

Lucian Freud 

Wasteground with Houses, Paddington, 

1970-72 

Oil on canvas 

62x40 in. (167.5x101.5 cm.) 

Private collection, England 

29. 

Lucian Freud 

Naked Portrait. 1972-73 

Oil on canvas 

24x24 in. (61 x 61 cm.) 

The Trustees of the Tate Gallery. 

London 



81 



/ 



30. 

Lucian Freud 

Large Interior, W.9., 1973 

Oil on canvas 

36x36 in. (91.4 x 91.4 cm.) 

Devonshire Collection: Lent by His 

Grace the Duke of Devonshire and the 

Trustees of the Chatsworth Settlement 

31. 

Lucian Freud 

Naked Figure, 1974 

Oil on canvas 

85/8 xlOya in. (23x27 cm.) 

David Kelley, Worcestershire, England 

32. 

Lucian Freud 

>!//, 1974 

Oil on canvas 

28 X 28 in. (71 x 71 cm.) 

Bernard J. Eastwood, County Down, 

Northern Ireland 

33. 

Lucian Freud 

Artnie and Alice, 1 975 

Oil on canvas 

8% X 10% in. (22.6 x 27 cm.) 

Anthony D'Offay and 

James Kirkman, London 

34. 

Anton Heyboer 

Untitled, 1975 

Oil and lacquer on canvas 

59x78% in. (150 x200 cm.) 

Galerie Espace, Amsterdam 

35. 

Anton Heyboer 

t/nf/f/ed, 1975 

Oil and lacquer on canvas 

59x78% in. (150 x200 cm.) 

Private collection 

36. 

Anton Heyboer 

Untitled, 1975 

Oil and lacquer on canvas 

78% x59in. (200 x 150 cm.) 

Private collection 

37. 

Anton Heyboer 

Untitled, 1975 

Oil and lacquer on canvas 

59x78% in. (150 x200 cm.) 

Galerie Espace, Amsterdam 



J 



38. 

David Hockney 

Henry Geldzahler and Christopher Scott, 

1968-69 

Acrylic on canvas 

841/4 X 120 in. (214 x305 cm.) 

Harry N. Abrams Family Collection, 

New York 

39. 

David Hockney 

Beach Umbrella, 1971 

Acrylic on canvas 

48x35% in. (122x91 cm.) 

Andre Emmerich Gallery, New York 

40. 

David Hockney 

Still Life on a Glass Table, 1971-72 

Acrylic on canvas 

72x108 in. (183 x274.4 cm.) 

Private collection. New York 

41. 

David Hockney 

Two Vases in the Louvre, 1974 

Oil on canvas 

721/2 X 60 in. (184x152.4 cm.) 

Kasmin Ltd., London 

42. 

David Hockney 

Kerby (after Hogarth) — Useful 

Knowledge, 1975 

Oil on canvas 

72x60 in. (182.9x152.4 cm.) 

Lent by the artist 

43. 

Jean-Olivier Hucleux 
Cemetery ^5, 1973 
Oil on laminated plywood 
78% x 118 in. (200 x300 cm.) 
Collection of the artist 

44. 

Jean-Olivier Hucleux 

Cemetery *6, 1974 

Oil on laminated plywood 

78% x 118 in. (200 x300 cm.) 

Centre National d'Art et de Culture 

Georges Pompidou 

Musee National d'Art Moderne, Paris 

45. 

Jean-Olivier Hucleux 

Self-Port rait, 1974 

Oil on wood 

251/2 X 21 1/4 in. (65x53 cm.) 

Collection of the artist 



46. 

Jean-Olivier Hucleux 

Portrait of Etienne Martin, 1 975 

Oil on wood 

251/2 X 21 1/4 in. (65x53 cm.) 

Collection of the artist 

47. 

R. B. Kitaj 

Still (The Other Woman), 1972-73 

Oil on canvas 

96x30 in. (244 x76 cm.) 

Mr. and Mrs. Ian Stoutzker, London 

48. 

R. B. Kitaj 

Bill at Sunset, 1973 

Oil on canvas 

96x30 in. (244 x76 cm.) 

Collection of the artist 

49. 

R. B. Kitaj 

To Live in Peace (The Singers), 1973-74 

Oil on canvas 

301/4 X 841/4 in. (77 x 214 cm.) 

Marlborough Fine Art (London) Ltd. 

50. 

R. B. Kitaj 

Malta, 1974 

Oil on canvas 

60x96 in. (152 x244 cm.) 

Private collection, Belgium 

51. 

Antonio Segui 

Two Situations in an Oasis, 1970 

Acrylic on cardboard 

331/2 X 431/4 in. (85x1 10 cm.) 

Lefebre Gallery, New York 

52. 

Antonio Segui 

Portrait of Mr. Lewis, 1 970 

Oil on two wood panels 

331/2 X 431/4 in. (85x110 cm.) 

Lefebre Gallery, New York 

53. 

Antonio Segui 

Bulldog in San Vicente, 1975 

Charcoal and paste! on canvas 

76% X 76% in. (195 x 195 cm.) 

Lefebre Gallery, New York 

54. 

Antonio Segui 

Surprised Bulldog, 1975 

Charcoal and pastel on canvas 

76% X 76% in. (195 x 195 cm.) 

Lefebre Gallery, New York 



82 



Lenders to the Exhibition 



Harry N. Abrams Family Collection, 

New York 

Mrs. Anne Arikha, Paris 

Avigdor Arlkha, Paris 

H. R. Astrup. Oslo 

Anthony D'Offay, London 

The Duke of Devonshire and the 

Trustees of the Chatsworth Settlement 

Bernard J. Eastwood, Northern Ireland 

Tom Eyton, London 

Jean-Olivier Hucleux, Andresy, France 

Mr. and Mrs. Yves-Andre Istel, New York 

David Kelly, Worcestershire, England 

James Kirkman, London 

R. B. Kitaj, London 

Mr. and Mrs. Ian Stoutzker, London 

Anyaand Laura Waddington, London 

Private collections 

Galerie Beyeler, Basel 
Andre Emmerich Gallery, New York 
Galerie Espace, Amsterdam 
Galerie Karl Flinker, Paris 
Kasmin Ltd., London 
Lefebre Gallery, New York 
Galerie Maeght, Paris and Zurich 
Marlborough Fine Art (London) Ltd. 
Pierre Matisse Gallery. New York 
Pace Gallery, New York 

Centre National d'Art et de Culture 
Georges Pompidou, Paris 
The Tate Gallery, London 



Photo Credits 



Jacqueline Hyde, Paris 

Paul Hartland, Amsterdam 

Andre Morain, Paris 

Otto Nelson, New York 

Sturlason, Oslo 

Michael Todd-White, London 

Rodney Todd-White and Son, London 

Rodney Wright-Watson, London 

Kasmin Ltd., London 
Galerie Maeght, Paris and Zurich 
Marlborough Fine Art (London) Ltd. 
Pace Gallery, New York 
Waddington Galleries, London 

Los Angeles County Museum of Art 
Reunion des Musees Nationaux, Paris 



Los Angeles County Museum of Art 
Board of Trustees, 1975 

Dr. Franklin D. Murphy, Chairman 

Richard E. Sherwood, President 

Mrs. Anna Bing Arnold, Vice President 

R. Stanton Avery, Wee President 

Mrs. F. Daniel Frost, Vice President 

Dr. Charles Z. Wilson, Jr., Treasurer 

Mrs. Norman F. Sprague, Jr., Secretary 

Mrs. Howard Ahmanson 

William H. Ahmanson 

Roberto. Anderson 

Michael Blankfort 

Sidney F. Brody 

B. Gerald Cantor 

Edward W. Carter ^■ 

Justin Dart 

Julian Ganz, Jr. 

Dr. Armand Hammer 

Christian Humann 

A. Quincy Jones 

Felix Juda 

Joseph B. Koepfli 

Hoyt B. Leisure 

Harry Lenart 

Eric Lidow 

Henry T. Mudd 

Mrs. Joan Palevsky 

Edwin W. Pauley 

Daniel H. Ridder 

Dr. Armando M. Rodriguez 

Maynard J. Toll 

HalB.Wallis 

Mrs. Herman Weiner 

Frederick R. Weisman 

Mrs. Katherine C.White 

Robert Wilson 

Dr. M. Norvel Young 

Honorary Lite Trustees 

Mrs. Freeman Gates 
Mrs. Rudolph Liebig 
John Walker 

Los Angeles County Board of 
Supervisors, 1975 

James A. Hayes, Chairman 
Edmund D. Edelman 
Kenneth Hahn 
Peter F. Schabarum 
Baxter Ward 



83